X 


THG 

UNIY6RS1TY  Of  CALlfORNlfl 
LIBRARY 

077/f 


"VANDYKE-BROWN"  POEMS 


BY   MARC    COOK 


WITH 

PREFATORY  WORDS  BY  HAROLD  FREDERIC 

AND 

A    TRIBUTE    TO    THE    AUTHOR 

BY 

PROF.   EDWARD   NORTH 


tefc  frg  fjfa  TOife 


BOSTON 

LEE    AND    SHEPARD,   PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK 
CHARLES   T.  DILLINGHAM 

1883 


Copyright,  1SS3, 
BY  LEE  AND  SHEPARD. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  : 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


THE  LOST  STAR, 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MARC    COOK. 

r~T*HE  world  seems  sad  and  lone  and  gone, 
As  if  some  life-tie  was  withdrawn  — 
Some  star  that  filled  the  shining  space 
Grew  dim  and  faded  from  its  place. 

We  look  above  in  m^lte  despair  — 
We  find  each  star  still  shining  there  — 
Each  one  has  its  appointed  goal, 
They  circle  still  arotmd  the  pole. 

There  is  no  orb,  no  star,  withdrawn  — 
'TVj  only  our  star  that  is  gone  ; 
The  rest  still  blaze  and  light  the  dome  — 
The  wanting  star  is  in  our  home  ! 

Lost  star,  within  what  brighter  sky, 
Where  suns  and  planets  never  die  — 
In  what  new  realms  of  boundless  space 
Can  we  thy  distant  orbit  trace  ? 

We  see  it  only  in  our  dreams — 
How  bright  and  beautiful  it  seems  !  — 
As  all  life's  hopes  are  lost  and  gone  ; 
With  all  these  stars— yet  wanting  one  ! 

JOHN  /?.  PEA  SE. 


PREFATORY   WORDS. 


WORSE  than  the  terrors  of  dissolution  it 
self  is  the  fear  that  death  may  bring 
forgetfulness.  The  oldest  graven  records  of 
the  race  are  barriers  raised  to  stop  this  dread 
oblivion,  —  at  once  a  protest  against  the  effacing 
march  of  generations  and  a  plea  for  posterity's 
attention,  pitiful  in  its  very  helplessness.  "  Let 
his  name  be  forgotten,"  was  the  sternest  and 
most  merciless  form  of  ancient  condemnation. 

A  tender  and  reverent  wish  to  hold  Death 
back  from  this,  his  final  triumph,  inspires  the 
publication  of  this  volume.  The  author  of  the 
poems,  which  are  now  first  given  to  the  public 
in  a  permanent  habit,  had  in  his  nature  that 
excessive  modesty  which  prompts  the  "habitual 
masking  of  work  beneath  a  nom  de  plume.  To 
his  timid  temperament  even  the  warm  words 
and  appreciation  of  a  circle  of  close  friends 
seemed  too  great  a  fame,  which  he  shrank  from 


vi  PREFATORY  WORDS. 

appearing  to  court.  These  friends  have  looked 
their  last  upon  him  on  earth.  They  have  fol 
lowed  him  to  the  grave,  dismayed  to  dumbness 
by  the  seeming  cruelty  which  robbed  them  of 
his  life  before  yet  it  had  reached  the  fruiting 
period  of  manhood.  It  is  left  them  only  to 
gather  these  blossoms  of  his  promise,  and  seek 
for  their  fragrance  and  loveliness  that  recogni 
tion  at  the  hands  of  his  fellow-men  which  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  ask. 

The  early  life  of  Marc  Cook  was  filled  with 
prophecies  of  its  ultimate  achievements.  His 
power  of  memorizing,  his  felicity  of  expression, 
and  his  graceful  declamation  were  all  prominent 
in  childhood.  The  fire  of  genius,  which  matur 
ing  displays  itself  in  these  poems,  proclaimed 
itself  in  his  first  attempts  at  verse.  At  twelve 
he  wrote  his  poem  which  was  afterwards  chris 
tened  and  published  as  "  Prince  Tare."  Prepared 
for  a  class  exhibition,  it  was  voted  "  the  best  of 
the  evening  "  by  the  audience  present.  A  little 
later  he  commenced  journalism  on  his  own  ac 
count,  established  and  published  a  semi-monthly 
paper,  entitled  "  The  Boy's  Companion."  This 
was  followed  by  "  The  Enterprise,"  —  a  monthly 
of  more  pretentious  character,  —  the  joint  pro 
duct  of  himself  and  his  life-long  and  cherished 


PREFATORY  WORDS.  vii 

friend,  E.  M.  Rewey,  of  the  "New  York  Sun." 
Meanwhile  he  was  preparing  for  college,  and 
entered  Hamilton  at  the  age  of  sixteen. 

In  athletic  sports  he  was  usually  awarded  a 
leadership  among  his  fellows.  In  the  college 
gymnasium  he  had  few  equals.  He  lived  much 
in  these  years  of  health.  But  they  were  few! 
As  his  physical  energies  declined,  however,  his 
poetical  genius  glowed  with  intenser  radiance. 
The  prophecies  of  his  youth  fulfilled,  he  hence 
forth  lived  in  the  poet's  corner  of  existence, 
where  impressions  are  events,  and  fancies  are 
calculated  facts.  A  more  purely  "  literary  "  tem 
perament  than  his,  no  American  has  ever  been 
given. 

He  was  the  son  of  a  clergyman,  and  was  born 
in  Providence,  although  his  childhood  and  youth 
—  and,  all  too  soon,  his  closing  days — were 
passed  in  Utica.  From  the  very  dawn  of  boyish 
dreams  of  a  vocation,  he  was  a  writer.  In  all  the 
grades  of  his  school  life  he  was  the  verse-maker 
and  composer  of  his  class.  His  thirst  for  active 
labor  in  the  field  of  journalism  drew  him  from 
college  just  before  the  close  of  his  senior  year. 
His  connection  with  regular  newspaper  work  in 
Worcester,  Brooklyn,  New  York,  and  elsewhere, 
was  fugitive  from  the  first,  and  after  1875  was 


viii  PREFATORY  WORDS. 

abandoned  altogether.  His  prose  contributions 
to  magazines  and  the  press  were  in  demand 
before  that  date  and  after  it,  and  they  embrace 
some  short  stories  and  sketches,  to  find  a  par 
allel  for  which  in  originality,  force,  and  magic 
of  style,  we  must  go  back  to  Poe.  But  he  was 
essentially  a  singer,  a  writer  of  verse,  and  it  has 
been  deemed  best  to  present  him  to  the  public 
solely  in  that  light.  The  large  majority  of  his 
poems  were  first  printed  in  the  "  New  York 
Clipper"  under  the  pseudonym  of  "Vandyke 
Brown,"  and  thence  found  their  way  into  the 
newspapers  of  the  land. 

In  1879  the  ravages  of  consumption  forced 
him  to  leave  New  York  and  steady  work,  and 
the  experiment  of  a  sojourn  in  the  Adirondacks 
was  tried.  For  a  time  this  experiment  promised 
success.  His  symptoms  improved  and  hope 
revived.  During  this  period,  with  the  new  life 
inspired  by  the  mountains,  he  wrote  the  volume 
afterwards  published  by  William  Wood  &  Co., 
of  New  York,  entitled  "  The  Wilderness  Cure." 
He  traced  in  his  own  case  an  illustration  of  its 
efficacy. 

Returning  to  Utica,  October  22,  1880,  he  found 
in  the  pleasant  autumn  air,  in  the  society  of  his 
friends,  and  in  the  sympathies  and  loves  of  home, 


PREFATORY  WORDS.  ix 

still  further  encouragement,  and  fancied  to  him 
self  a  brightening  future.  And  now  he  gave 
expression  to  his  hope  in  that  exquisitely  written 
and  pathetically  sanguine  article  called  "  Camp 
Lou,"  published  in  "  Harper's  Magazine  "  of  May, 
1 88 1.  In  this  article  he  told  —  poor  boy!  — 
the  story  of  the  cure  which  seventeen  months  in 
the  Adirondacks  had  effected.  It  attracted  wide 
attention,  and  appearing  before  the  publication 
of  his  "  Wilderness  Cure,"  it  did  much  to  pre 
pare  the  way  for  an  extensive  sale  of  that  charm 
ing  book. 

But  alas  for  the  hopes  of  the  consumptive! 
Recurring  frequently,  let  us  learn  to  regard  them 
as  resting-places  along  the  dreary  pathway  to 
the  grave,  —  as  oases  in  the  desert  of  decay. 
Marc  Cook  died  on  the  4th  of  October,  1882,  in 
the  twenty-ninth  year  of  his  age. 

Whether  we  study  his  dainty  vers  de  societe, 
his  quaintly  whimsical  burlesques,  his  closely- 
knit  thoughtful  poems  of  serious  subjects,  or  his 
last  unspeakably  mournful  salutations  of  ap 
proaching  death,  we  find  revealed  a  soul  as  true 
and  gentle,  an  eye  as  shrewd  and  searching,  and 
a  hand  as  deft  and  sure  of  touch,  as  any  to  which 
American  readers  do  honor.  Amazing  as  was 
his  versatility,  ranging  the  gamut  of  human 


x  PREFATORY  WORDS. 

emotions,  from  the  merry  laugh  in  "  The  Five- 
Cent  Restaurant"  to  the  shuddering  echoes  of  the 
"  Church-yard  Bell,"  his  work  is  all  clean  and 
wholesome.  No  sensuous  swell  of  forbidden 
music  charms  away  our  will,  no  prurient  thought 
parades  itself,  wrapped  in  beguiling  imagery, 
as  virtue.  The  satire  is  manly.  The  mirth  is 
honest.  Grave  or  gay,  fanciful  or  deeply  earn 
est,  the  poems  are  all  finely  typical  of  the  man 
who  thought  out  and  felt  and  loved  them.  It 
was  the  privilege  of  but  few  to  know  him  in  the 
flesh.  The  whole  world  may  know  him  now  as 
he  lives  again  in  this  little  book,  and  be  the 

better  for  it. 

HAROLD   FREDERIC. 

ALBANY,  March,  1883. 


A    TRIBUTE. 


following  affectionate  tribute  of  Prof. 
Edward  North,  of  Hamilton  College,  will 
be  read  with  interest  as  giving  a  glimpse  of 
Mr.  Cook's  college  life :  — 

"I  seldom  met  him  outside  of  his  college  class 
room.  There  his  personality  was  clearly  asserted.  He 
was  as  distinctly  and  independently  himself  in  making 
a  Greek  recitation,  as  in  weaving  unlooked-for  rhymes 
for  the  '  College  Monthly.'  He  could  enliven  the 
weary  dulness  of  the  class-room  with  very  creditable 
mistakes.  Virgil's  '  Equo  ne  credite,  Teucri,'  it  would 
be  just  like  him  to  render,  as  if  by  inspired  authority, 
'  Don't  ride  a  pony,  boys.'  For  himself,  he  had  no 
need  of  such  aid. 

"  When  a  junior  in  college,  Rev.  Dr.  James  H.  Ecob, 
now  of  Albany,  read  a  memorable  essay  full  of  original 
thought,  on  'The  Untranslatable  in  Greek  Poetry.' 
It  was  a  confession  of  the  trouble  he  had  in  efforts  to  re 
produce  to  other  minds,  through  another  language,  the 


xii  A    TRIBUTE. 

subtle  music  and  lofty  sentiment  that  charmed  his  own 
soul  in  the  close  rhythms  of  ^Eschylus  and  Sophocles. 
Marc  Cook  was  like  Dr.  Ecob  in  his  quick  sympathy 
with  what  is  highest  and  sweetest  in  rhythmic  expres 
sion.  Yet  the  two  men  present  some  points  of  de 
cided  contrast.  As  students,  both  heartily  enjoyed 
'The  Untranslatable  in  Greek  Poetry.'  Both  had  a 
surprising  cleverness  in 

1  Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  Attic  soul  of  harmony,' 

by  some  other  way  than  very  severe  bondage  to  gram 
mar  and  lexicon.  Where  James  H.  Ecob  was  like 
Milton's  '  II  Penseroso,' 

'  Sober,  steadfast  and  demure,' 
Marc  Cook  was  like  '  L' Allegro '  in  his  passion  for 

'  Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Sport,  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides.' 

"Marc  Cook  was  a  boy  to  the  last  —  a  joyous, 
open-hearted,  generous,  lovable  boy,  even  in  the  pitiless 
clutches  of  wasting  disease  and  pain.  Probably  those 
who  were  nearest  to  him  would  testify  that  he  never 
could  have  been  other  than  a  boy,  had  he  lived  to  be 
threescore  and  ten.  In  his  temperament,  as  reflected 
by  his  writings,  the  pathetic  and  the  humorous  were 
closely  interwoven,  as  they  often  will  be  in  Nature's 
most  richly  gifted. 


A    TRIBUTE.  xiii 

"  What  Mr.  Cook  would  have  done  for  our  land's 
literature,  had  his  years  been  lengthened,  it  would  now 
be  useless  to  conjecture.  We  can  gratefully  rejoice  that 
he  has  left  so  much  to  preach  to  us  that  '  gospel  of 
relaxation,'  which  Herbert  Spencer  urges  our  pressing 
need  of.  We  can  rejoice  that  in  coming  days  of  glad 
ness,  should  they  ever  come,  his  frolic  muse  will  re 
mind  us  of  other  hours  that  were  brightened  by  his  wit 
and  brilliant  gifts." 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PREFATORY  WORDS v 

A  TRIBUTE xi 

L'ENVOI l 

SOMETIME 3 

THE  IMMORTAL  CITY 6 

HER  CROSS 8 

WAITING 10 

Now  THAT  THE  DAY  is  DONE 13 

THE  NIGHT  THAT  BABY  DIED 16 

RETROSPECT 18 

A  FAREWELL 20 

DEAD  TO-DAY 22 

THE  UNKNOWN  SINGER 25 

AWAITING  THE  END 27 

OLE  BULL 29 

THE  WORLD  STILL  GOOD 32 

MY  BOYHOOD'S  HOME 33 

OVER  THE  RUINS 35 

THE  BOY  THAT  I  KNEW 38 

NOTHING  UNDER  THE  SUN  is  NEW 41 

THE  LOVE  THAT  WAS 43 

MY  LAST  LOVE •    •  44 


xvi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  POOR  POET'S  SCRAP-BOOK 46 

THE  BABY'S  PICTURE 48 

IN  EXTREMIS 50 

A  NOVEMBER  REVERIE 52 

THE  Two  WISHERS 55 

IN  GREENWOOD 58 

SONNET  ON  EDWIN  ADAMS 60 

A  CIRCUS  MEMORY 61 

EDELWEISS 63 

THE  SPARROW 65 

THE  BLACKSMITH  KING 67 

DEAD  YESTERDAY 70 

OCTOBER 71 

WHY  DO  THE  WRINKLES  COME? 73 

CITY  VIOLETS 75 

THANKSGIVING  REFLECTIONS 78 

A  NEW  PHILOSOPHER 81 

NEW  LAMPS  FOR  THE  OLD 84 

THE  LIGHTHOUSE 86 

THE  OLD  STAGE-HORSE 88 

TIME'S  TOUCH 91 

TALKING  IT  OVER 96 

OLD  SLEDGE 99 

FIFTEEN  YEARS  AGO 101 

SKATING 103 

THE  CIRCUS 105 

PLAYING  BILLIARDS 108 

AN  HONEST  CONFESSION no 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  SWALLOW 113 

ANTHONY'S  PRAYER 115 

GROWING  OLD    .  118 


CONTENTS.  xvii 

PAGE 

AFTER  THE  HOLIDAYS 120 

To  LADY  CLARICE 123 

MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO 125 

MARCH I2§ 

THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH 130 

MY  FIRST  VALENTINE 133 

His  IDEA  OF  EDEN J36 

UNRHYMED  SORROW J39 

THE  CITY  ROOSTER H* 

MY  PIPE J43 

THE  COUNTY  FAIR 146 

HER  OPINION  OF  THE  PLAY J49 

THE  QUEEN  OF  HEARTS !52 

THE  WEATHER  IN  VERSE *54 

To  A  PRETTY  SCHOOLMA'AM ^57 

A  SONG l6° 

FLORA  TEMPLE l62 

UP  IN  A  BALLOON T^4 

BETWEEN  THE  ACTS 166 

THE  WINNING  SUIT *7l 

VERY  TANTALIZING J73 

ROCKET •    •    *7S 

THE  FAME  UNSOUGHT 182 

STAR-LOVE l84 

IN  THE  MUSEUM 187 

AUTUMN  LEAVES *9° 

His  PRETTIEST  TRICK 193 

MY  NOBLE  RIVAL 199 

A  CURIOUS  WANT 202 

AZARIAH  E.  BRIERY,  AND  HIS  DIARY 204 

How  THE  CATCHER  WAS  CAUGHT 206 


xviii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  FREE  TICKET 209 

THE  CASE  OF  YOUNG  BROWN 212 

AT  THE  DAIRY  FAIR 215 

THE  CANNIBAL'S  LOVE    .    .    • 217 

ODE  TO  AUTUMN 224 


"VANDYKE-BROWN"    POEMS. 


POEMS. 


L'ENVOI. 

A  FRESHENING   odor  from  the  new-ploughed 
fields, 

A  smell  of  earth,  moist,  rarefied  and  good, 
With  fainter  scent  of  buds  the  soft  breeze  yields 
Blowing,  to-day,  from  meadowland  and  wood. 

It  cools  the  feverish  brow  of  one  who  sang 
In  humble  strain  of  many  a  bygone  Spring, 

And  who  once  more  takes  up,  with  inward  pang, 
His  lyre,  once  more  and  only  once  to  sing. 

Around  about  in  everything  behold 

The  promise  of  new  life  in  nature  mute  : 

The  buried  seed  shall  grow  to  wheaten  gold, 
The  bursting  bud  shall  turn  to  ripened  fruit. 

But  long  before  the  harvest-time  is  come, 
Or  Autumn  wears  again  her  gorgeous  crown, 

The  singer's  lips  forever  will  be  dumb, 
The  weary  burden  of  his  life  laid  down. 


L?  ENVOI. 

Ah,  well !  If  hard  it  seems  that  he  alone 

Can  find  no  hope  in  Spring's  life-laden  breath, 

Still  let  his  last  song  be  no  wailing  moan, 
For,  loving  life,  he  yet  can  smile  at  death. 

And  sweet  it  is  to  think  upon  those  days 
When  hotly  burned  Ambition  in  his  veins, 

When  yet  he  dreamed  of  winning  fame  and  praise 
By  tuning  this  weak  lyre  to  lofty  strains. 

Sweet,  too,  the  memory  of  those  halcyon  times 
When  Love  first  blossomed  richly  in  his  soul  — 

A  mighty  love  that  mocked  his  little  rhymes, 
And  rounded  life  into  a  perfect  whole. 

Full  rare  the  hours  with  old  companions  spent 
Or  dreamed  away  in  Summer  afternoons, 

When  dreaming  brought  a  lotus-sweet  content, 
And  life's  hard  crosses  seemed  as  precious  boons. 

Let  these  and  kindred  memories  be  the  themes 
Of  this  the  singer's  last  and  simple  song, 

For  through  the  darkness  of  his  pathway  gleams 
A  light  that  never. yet  has  led  man  wrong. 

He  dies  unknown,  and  with  the  melodies 

He  could  not  voice  in  life  locked  in  his  breast  — 

What 's  this  ?     A  chill  has  come  upon  the  breeze  : 
The  lyre  falls.     The  singer  is  at  rest ! 


SOMETIME. 

FOREVER  my  heart  is  stirred 
By  the  magic  that  lies  in  the  word 

"  Sometime." 

When  the  burdens  of  life  are  heavy  to  bear, 
I  say  to  myself :  Sometime,  somewhere, 
An  end  will  come  to  all  my  care  — 

Sometime,  sometime. 
I  shall  find  the  heart  that  beats  for  me, 
Rich  with  beauty  the  world  will  be, 
My  ship  shall  come  sailing  over  the  sea, 
Sometime,  sometime. 

Sometime,  I  know, 

Fresh  roses  will  blow 
In  place  of  these  that  are  lying  low. 
The  sun  will  melt  the  drifts  of  snow, 
And  life  will  burn  with  a  roseate  glow  — 

Sometime,  sometime. 

Sometime  the  shadows  which  darken  my  way 
Shall  rise  like  the  mist  of  the  morning  gray, 
Revealing  the  splendors  of  glorious  day  — 

Sometime,  sometime. 


4  SOMETIME. 

My  soul  shall  be  warmed  by  the  sun's  own  light, 
My  heart  shall  be  glad  and  the  world  grow  bright, 
And  forever  shall  vanish  the  black,  black  night  — 
Sometime,  sometime. 

When  peace  is  fled, 

And  hope  seems  dead, 
I  live  in  the  glory  of  Sometime  ; 
I  whisper  the  story  of  Sometime  ; 
I  weave  into  rhyme  the  beautiful  time, 

The  radiant,  rose-colored  Sometime. 
Sometime  the  day  shall  borrow 
The  splendor  that  gilds  the  morrow ; 
Sometime  the  burden  of  sorrow 

Will  fall  at  my  feet. 
Sometime  the  beautiful  only 
Shall  brighten  my  pathway  lonely, 

And  life  will  be  sweet ! 


O,  the  golden,  glorious  Sometime  ! 

The  marvellous,  magical  Sometime  ! 
The  strivings  and  yearnings,  the  heartaches  and  burn 
ings, 
The  bitter  despairings  and  mournings  and  spurnings, 

Will  cease  with  the  dawn  of  Sometime. 
No  monarch  who  ever  has  sat  on  a  throne 
In  all  his  dominions  could  claim  for  his  own 

So  rare,  so  fair  a  possession  as  this  — 


SOMETIME. 

The  realm  where  the  golden  possible  lies, 
Shut  out  from  the  vision  of  grosser  eyes, 

Encircled  about  in  a  halo  of  bliss. 

So  forever  my  heart  is  stirred 
By  the  magic  that  lies  in  the  word 

"Sometime." 

And  when  all  the  sands  of  my  life  are  told, 
And  death  lays  hands  on  me  icily  cold, 
Where  the  great  throne  stands  my  eyes  shall  behold 
The  white-robed  bands  in  the  streets  of  gold  — 
Sometime,  sometime. 


THE   IMM0RTAL   CITY. 

BY  the  city  of  the  living 
(So  Etruscan  legends  run) 
Stood  another  silent  city, 

Stretching  toward  the  setting  sun. 

And  above  this  city  brooded, 

Like  a  mighty  black-winged  bird, 

Silence  so  intense  that  never 
Sound  of  any  kind  was  heard, 

Save  when  on  its  iron  hinges 
Open  swung  the  massive  gate 

To  admit  another  dweller, 
Weary  of  his  earthly  fate. 

In  the  city  of  the  living 
All  was  bustle,  stir  and  strife  — 

Whirred  the  wheels  of  ceaseless  action, 
Flowed  the  myriad  streams  of  life. 

People  planned  and  worked  and  suffered, 
Children  laughed,  and  lovers  sighed  ; 

Youth,  hot-blooded,  dreamed  of  glory, 
Age  looked  on  and  smiled,  and  died  ! 


THE  IMMORTAL   CITY. 

Maidens  heard  again  the  story, 

Ever  old,  yet  ever  new ; 
And  to  eyes  unused  to  weeping 

Earth  took  on  a  radiant  hue. 

But  through  all  the  din  and  tumult, 

Lo  !  the  city  just  outside 
Lay,  as  ever,  wrapped  in  silence, 

Waiting  for  the  next  who  died  ! 

In  its  streets  no  sound  of  laughter 

Ever  broke  upon  the  air ; 
In  its  palaces  and  dwellings 

Only  silence,  everywhere  ! 

Yet  there  came  unto  this  city 

Such  a  never-ending  tide 
That  it  needs  must  stretch  its  borders 

Wider  yet  and  yet  more  wide. 

So,  by  slow  degrees  encroaching 
Where  the  living  had  pulled  down, 

In  the  end  the  silent  city 

Swallowed  up  the  bustling  town. 

And  to-day  —  so  runs  the  legend  — 
But  one  city  rears  its  head ; 

That  alone  has  proved  immortal, 
Though  the  city  of  the  dead. 


HER  CROSS. 

SHE  came  and  sat  beside  him,  saying : 
"  No  gift  to  me  the  muses  gave, 
But  if,  your  stronger  will  obeying, 

My  hand  can  be  your  mind's  meek  slave, 
Then  let  me  —  oh,  I  pray  you,  let  me  — 
(For  you  are  weaker  than  you  think) 
Write  down  the  burning  thoughts  that  fret  you 
That  live  imprisoned  in  that  ink  !  " 

So  came  it  that,  through  weary  hours 

(Alas  !  that  man  for  bread  must  fight), 
He  mustered  still  his  waning  powers 

And  spake  the  words  for  her  to  write ; 
And  she,  who  held  him  nearer,  dearer, 

Than  life  below  or  heaven  above, 
Could  only  call  on  God  to  hear  her, 

To  ease  the  labor  of  her  love  ! 

Still  grasped  he  with  unsteady  fingers 
The  phantoms  hidden  in  the  ink, 

Reflecting  that,  while  life's  flame  lingers, 
T  is  right  to  labor,  toil  and  think. 


HER   CROSS. 

Perchance  the  world  will  smile  hereafter 
At  some  bright  fancy  it  has  read, 

Nor  guess  that  he  who  caused  its  laughter 
While  laughing  lay  upon  death's  bed  ! 

How  eagerly  her  quick  ear  listened 

To  catch  the  low  words  which  he  spoke ; 
How  lovingly  her  bright  eyes  glistened, 

As  by  a  master-touch  he  woke  • 
Some  tender  chord  that  thrilled  her  being  !  — 

Ah,  had  the  world  been  half  as  quick 
His  gentle  genius  in  foreseeing, 

He  had  not  lain  there  deathly  sick  I 

The  little  muse  that  sang  so  often 

Is  cold  and  mute  and  voiceless  now ; 
What  tongue  of  censure  would  not  soften 

In  presence  of  that  pallid  brow  ? 
Tears  —  tears  for  her  whose  ringers  taper  — 

Last  traced  the  fancies  he  could  think  : 
She  wrote  —  't  was  with  her  heart  for  paper  ! 

She  wrote  —  't  was  with  her  blood  for  ink  ! 


WAITING. 

TELL  me,  O  sounding  sea  !  I  pray, 
Eternally  undulating, 
Where  is  the  good  ship  that  sailed  away, 
Once,  on  a  long-gone  Summer's  day  — 
Sailed  and  left  me  waiting? 

No  braver  ship  was  ever  seen, 

As  over  the  sunlit  waters 
She  glided  on  with  stately  mien 
Of  a  fair,  white-vested  ocean  queen  — 

A  queen  among  Neptune's  daughters. 

Her  sails  were  white  as  the  wings  of  a  dove 
Alas,  for  the  fate  she  was  daring  ! 

Gayly  she  rode  the  waves  above, 

Gayly,  as  if  all  conscious  of 

The  precious  freight  she  was  bearing. 

And  never  before  sailed  ship  from  shore 

With  a  cargo  half  so  precious ; 
Youth,  hope  and  love  my  good  ship  bore, 
And  all  the  fair  visions  that  came  no  more 
In  sadder  days  to  refresh  us. 


WAITING. 

Yes,  hope  and  love,  the  dreams  of  fame, 

Youth's  sweet  self-satisfaction, 
Ambition,  which  kindles  the  blood  to  flame, 
The  lusty  longing  to  win  a  name 

On  life's  broad  field  of  action  : 

All  these  my  good  ship  bore  away  — 
With  such  rare  treasures  freighted 
She  sailed  on  that  long-flown  Summer's  day : 
How  long  it  is  no  tongue  can  say  — 
Yet  still  have  I  waited  —  waited  ! 

And  ever  this  barren  shore  have  I  paced 

With  eyes  still  wearily  straining, 
Gazing  out  on  the  water's  waste, 
Where  naught  remains  of  the  faith  that  I  placed 

In  the  blue  waves,  uncomplaining. 

And  so,  through  the  long  and  desolate  years, 

Have  I  watched  for  my  ship's  returning ; 
Watched  and  waited  'mid  doubts  and  fears, 
Waited  and  watched,  when  the  scalding  tears 
Adown  my  cheeks  were  burning. 

The  seasons  have  gone  and  rolled  away, 

Each  with  its  burden  freighted, 
But  whether  December  or  whether  May, 
In  flush  of  the  morn  or  twilight  gray, 

Still  have  I  waited  —  waited  ! 


1 2  WAITING. 

The  busy  world  to  the  New  has  turned, 

Its  pulses  palpitating  ; 

Again  have  life's  bitter  lessons  been  learned, 
And  hands  have  labored  and  hearts  have  burned, 

While  I  for  my  ship  have  been  waiting. 

But  now  I  am  weary  and  hope  is  flown, 

And  the  sea's  sad  undulating 
Breaks  on  my  ear  like  a  dismal  moan  : 
My  ship  has  gone  down  in  the  waters  unknown, 

And  vain  has  been  all  my  waiting  ! 


NOW  THAT  THE   DAY   IS  DONE. 

THE  sun  goes  down  in  his  regal  glory, 
The  sun  goes  down,  for  the  day  is  done ; 
With  darkness  ends  forever  the  story 
Which  first  in  the  rosy  morn  was  begun. 
What  if  this  day  were  the  final  one  ? 
For  good  or  for  evil,  't  is  written  forever  — 
One  page  in  the  book  of  Time  which  never 
Can  altered  be  by  human  endeavor, 
Now  that  the  day  is  done  ! 


In  the  deepening  twilight  I  sit  and  ponder 

On  all  that  this  vanished  day  may  have  brought ; 

Has  it  filled  the  promise  of  morn,  I  wonder  ? 

Have  its  hours  with  pleasure  or  pain  been  fraught  ? 
Shall  we  ever  regret  that  its  course  is  run  ? 

How  many  who  bravely  went  forth  in  the  morning, 

All  fear  of  possible  danger  scorning, 

Lie  stark  and  cold  —  oh,  pitiful  warning  !  — 
Now  that  the  day  is  done  ! 


14       NOW  THAT  THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 

How  many  thousands  in  anguish  and  sorrow 

Are  watching  the  shadows  of  night  descend, 
For  this  dying  Day  was  once  that  To-morrow 
On  which  they  counted  as  on  a  friend. 
But,  alas,  for  the  friend  that  they  leaned  upon  ! 
He  has  proved  the  traitor  to  mock  and  deceive  them  — 
His  sunshine  has  been  but  a  cheat  to  bereave  them  — 
And  naught  but  the  dregs  in  the  cup  does  he  leave  them 
Now  that  the  day  is  done  ! 

Some  maiden,  I  fancy,  impatient,  has  waited 

The  dawn  of  this  fairest  and  rarest  of  days, 
And  to-night,  with  her  true  love  happily  mated, 
She  watches  the  sun's  last  lingering  rays. 
All,  would  that  the  morn  had  just  begun  ! 
For  sweet  unto  her  this  day  which  has  given, 
Through  lenses  which  only  Love's  hand  could  have  riven, 
One  glorious  glimpse  of  a  lover's  heaven  — 
Now  that  the  day  is  done  ! 

But  in  many  a  home  that  was  filled  with  gladness 
When  the  morning  broke,  there  stalks  to-night 
A  phantom  that  turns  all  joy  into  sadness, 
That  casts  on  all  coming  time  its  blight. 
(Alas,  that  the  day  was  ever  begun  !) 
And  little  it  comforts  those  hearts  in  sorrow 
To  know  that  the  sun  will  rise  on  the  morrow  — 
His  rays  can  never  their  old  charm  borrow, 
Now  that  the  day  is  done  ! 


NOW  THAT  THE  DAY  IS  DONE.        15 

By  just  one  day  is  the  old  world  older, 

By  just  one  day  are  we  nearer  the  end. 
Have  hearts  grown  warmer,  or  have  they  grown  colder  ? 
Have  we  raised  up  the  weak  or  assisted  a  friend  ? 
What  if  this  day  were  the  final  one  ? 
From  the  flush  of  the  morn  to  the  sun's  last  setting 
The  world  has  been  toiling  and  striving  and  fretting, 
And  what  has  been  gained  that  was  worth  the  getting, 
Now  that  the  day  is  done  ? 


THE    NIGHT  THAT  BABY  DIED. 

NO  black-plumed  hearse  goes  slowly  sweeping  by, 
No  suits  of  woe  nor  masks  of  misery, 
No  long  procession  winding  to  the  tomb 
Its  serpent  length  of  simulated  gloom ; 
Only  one  carriage  and  two  mourners  there, 
Who  on  the  other  seat  a  burden  bear  — 
A  little,  pinewood  coffin,  rudely  stained 
To  imitate  a  fabric  finer-grained. 
Who  would  suppose  that  that  small  box  contained 
The  hopes,  the  fears,  the  joys,  the  exultant  pride, 
Which  in  the  cruel  dark  were  crucified, 
The  night  that  Baby  died? 

Poor  Baby  !  what  a  gleam  of  glory  lit 

Yon  wretched  hovel  when  he  brightened  it 

With  his  sweet  presence  of  a  Winter  morn  ! 

Say  not  that  he  to  poverty  was  born,  . 

For  from  the  first  his  blue,  contented  eyes 

Reflected  visions  of  serener  skies. 

He  saw,  beyond  the  world  that  round  us  lies, 

That  far-off  shore  whose  outline  seems  so  dim ; 

He  found  companions  in  the  seraphim, 


THE  NIGHT  THAT  BABY  DIED.          17 

And  all  the  wealth  of  Heaven  belonged  to  him. 
Its  pearly  portals  angels  opened  wide, 
The  night  that  Baby  died. 

He  was  not  poor,  but  very  poor  were  they 
To  whom  he  came  —  brief  sunshine  of  their  day  — 
The  only  sunshine  that  was  ever  lent 
To  light  the  gloom  of  their  dark  tenement. 
And  when  he  fell  into  the  final  sleep, 
Their  hearts  were  torn  by  agony  so  deep 
That,  bending  over  him,  they  could  not  weep, 
But  gazed  upon  him  in  their  dumb  despair, 
Upon  the  little  face  supremely  fair, 
The  aureole  glory  of  his  yellow  hair, 
Then  hugged  the  grief  to  which  tears  were  denied, 
The  night  that  Baby  died. 

Dear  Lord  !  who  art  the  poor  man's  friend  and  shield, 
Be  with  that  carriage  in  the  Potter's  Field ; 
Command  the  white  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
To  cover  them,  who  need  thy  healing  most. 
And  when  upon  the  little  coffin  lid 
The  dull  earth  falls  —  the  poor  pine  box  is  hid  — 
Though  no  priest  pray  and  never  prayer  is  said, 
Be  thou  with  them  to  sanctify  their  dead. 
And  though  their  lives  through  tortuous  paths  be  led, 
Teach  them  to  know,  whatever  is  denied, 
They  gained  the  love  of  Him,  the  crucified, 
The  night  that  Baby  died. 


RETROSPECT. 

SIT  down  here  beside  me,  my  sweet  Genevieve  ; 
Hold  my  hands  in  your  own,  as  you  held  them 

of  old. 

This  hour  of  twilight  has  power  to  weave 
All  threads  of  the  past  into  fabric  of  gold. 

It  comes  as  of  yore  with  its  odor  of  flowers, 
With  prodigal  richness  of  deeply-green  leaves, 

This  queen-month  of  Summer  —  it  comes,  and  its  hours 
Of  twilight  are  those  to  which  my  soul  cleaves. 

And  pleasant  it  is  for  the  hour  to  lie  here, 
Forgetful  of  ills  that  have  been  or  may  be  ; 

I  think,  Genevieve,  but  for  you  I  would  die  here, 
And  so  end  the  contest  betwixt  Death  and  me. 

For  the  fight  has  been  long  and  painful  and  weary  — 
Ah,  love,  could  I  only  have  borne  it  alone  ! 

The  days  leaden-houred,  the  nights  sad  and  dreary, 
The  anguish  of  body  and  mind  I  have  known  — 

Could  this  cross  have  been  mine  alone  to  carry, 
I  had  not  murmured,  though  crushed  by  the  blow ; 

Alas,  that  when  Love  and  Suffering  marry, 
The  pangs  of  each  the  other  must  know  ! 


RETROSPECT.  19 

Do  you  sometimes  think,  my  sweet  Genevieve, 
How  brightly  before  us  the  future  once  gleamed  ? 

How  often  of  old  on  a  Summer-eve 

Have  we  sat  in  Love's  sweet  silence  and  dreamed  ?  — 

Of  all  the  beautiful  things  that  should  be  : 

Of  the  wonderful  deeds  I  should  some  day  do, 

When  every  honor  that  came  to  me 
Should  be  a  love-offering  unto  you  ? 

Fair,  oh  fair  was  that  sunset  vision, 

Seen  through  the  diamond  lens  of  Love  ; 

Forever  we  wandered  in  fields  of  Elysian, 
A  Heaven  around  us,  a  Heaven  above  ! 

And  this  is  the  end  of  all  our  dreaming  ! 

Ah,  sweet  Genevieve,  the  hot  tears  start  — 
How  bitter  the  real  as  compared  with  the  seeming, 

How  black  the  To-day  which  was  once  a  part 

Of  that  roseate  Future  that  opened  before  us  ! 

God  pity  us  both,  and  pity  all 
Who  are  stricken  thus,  for  now  hangs  o'er  us 

Naught  save  the  shadow  of  the  pall ! 

And  yet,  Genevieve,  though  Misery  has  found  us, 
We,  likewise,  have  found  how  mighty  is  Love  ; 

If  faded  forever  the  Heaven  around  us, 
Forever  awaits  us  the  Heaven  above  ! 


A   FAREWELL. 

COME  not  to  my  grave  with  your  mournings, 
With  your  lamentations  and  tears, 
With  your  sad  forebodings  and  fears  : 
When  my  lips  are  dumb, 
Do  not  come  ! 

Bring  no  long  train  of  carriages, 

No  hearse  crowned  with  waving  plumes, 
Which  the  gaunt  glory  of  Death  illumes ; 
But  with  hands  on  my  breast 
Let  me  rest. 

If,  in  my  fair  youthtime,  attended 
By  hope  and  delight  every  day, 
I  could  spurn  the  sweet  baseness  of  clay, 
Can  you  honor  me,  try 
Till  you  die  ? 

Insult  not  my  dust  with  your  pity, 
Ye  who  're  left  on  this  desolate  shore, 
Still  to  suffer  and  lose  and  deplore  — 

TisI  should,  as  I  do, 

Pity  you  ! 


A   FAREWELL.  21 

For  me  no  more  are  the  hardships, 
The  bitterness,  heartaches  and  strife, 
The  sadness  and  sorrow  of  life, 
But  the  glory  divine  — 
This  is  mine  ! 

Poor  creatures  !     Afraid  of  the  darkness, 
Who  groan  at  the  anguish  to  come, 
How  silent  I  go  to  my  home  ! 

Cease  your  sorrowful  bell : 
1       I  am  well ! 


DEAD  TO-DAY. 
\ 

DEAD  to-day. 

This  is  December  which  you  call  May ; 
The  fragrance  of  old  is  gone  from  these 
Blossoms  that  hang  on  the  apple-trees ; 
Even  the  lilac's  heavy  perfume 
Brings  but  a  hint  of  the  silent  tomb. 
There  is  no  beauty  in  earth  or  sky, 

No  melody  sweet  in  the  song  of  birds, 
For  all  the  streams  of  my  soul  are  dry, 

And  I  catch  but  the  echo  of  these  sad  words, 
Which  turn  to  December  the  blossomy  May  — 
Dead  to-day. 

In  the  room  upstairs, 

Where  the  blinds  are  shut  and  the  odorous  airs 
May  enter  not,  is  lying  one  — 
The  fairest  maiden  under  the  sun  — 
Who  hears  no  song  of  robin,  nor  sees 
How  blossoms  cover  the  apple-trees  ; 
She  knows  it  not,  nor  ever  will  know 
Whether  it  be  December  or  May  ; 


DEAD    TO-DAY.  33 


Whether  the  roses  of  Summer  blow, 

Or  the  storms  of  Winter  darken  the  day, 
As  white  is  she  as  the  shroud  she  wears, 
In  the  room  upstairs. 

There  she  lies, 

The  light  gone  out  of  her  glorious  eyes, 
The  hair  brushed  back  from  the  faultless  brow, 
Cold  as  the  sculptured  marble  now  : 
The  small  hands  crossed  on  her  snowy  breast, 
And  the  dainty  feet  forever  at  rest. 
What  more  ?     What  change  is  this 

That  turns  my  love  to  senseless  clay  ? 
Her  lips  give  back  no  answering  kiss, 

Yet  they  were  warm  but  yesterday. 
With  folded  hands  and  sightless  eyes 
There  she  lies. 

One  year  ago, 

When  the  blossoms  of  May  were  ready  to  blow, 
We  sat  and  talked  of  the  coming  days ; 
Talked  of  the  future,  whose  radiant  ways, 
Stretching  before  us,  were  lost  in  a  mist 
Of  gold  and  amber  and  amethyst. 
Then  was  the  world  like  a  rosy  dream, 

And  the  dregs  were  drowned  in  the  cup  of  bliss ; 
All  things  were,  and  nothing  did  seem  — 

How  could  we  know  or  guess  of  this 
WThen  the  blossoms  of  May  were  ready  to  blow, 
One  year  ago  ? 


24  DEAD   TO-DAY. 

What  of  the  years, 

With  all  their  strivings,  doubts  and  fears, 
That  lie  before  me  ?    Shall  I  find 
Respite  in  the  realm  of  mind  ? 
Or  ever  feel  again  the  thrill 
Of  hot  desire  burning  still? 
Will  ever  ambition  rise  up  as  of  old, 

Warming  the  blood  that  flows  in  my  veins  ? 
Shall  I  find  in  life's  dross  a  tincture  of  gold, 

Lamenting  its  losses  and  hoarding  its  gains  ? 
Must  laughter  forever  give  place  to  tears  — 
What  of  the  years  ? 

Dead  to-day. 

Is  there  nothing  left  but  this  lifeless  clay, 
Beautiful  still  in  Death's  embrace  ? 
Nothing  but  this  ?    The  chiselled  face, 
And  the  folded  hands  on  the  snowy  breast, 
And  the  dainty  feet  forever  at  rest? 
Go  look  at  her  there,  as  she  lies  alone, 

With  cold,  cold  lips,  and  white  hands  crossed ; 
Go  look,  and  ask  if  Faith  can  atone 

For  the  priceless  treasure  I  have  lost. 
Talk  not  of  Faith  to  me,  I  pray  — 
Dead  to-day. 


THE  UNKNOWN   SINGER. 

T  TNKNOWN  is  the  name  of  the  singer  who  sani 
LJ     These  tender  and  soulful  strains  ; 
What  sorrow  was  his,  what  bitter  pang, 
What  heartaches  and  hidden  pains  — 
Of  these  no  record  remains. 

And  yet,  if  this  poem  be  all  that  he  left, 
He  surely  lived  not  in  vain, 

For  to  those  who  are  stricken,  to  those  bereft, 
These  words  through  the  clouds  of  pain 
Will  shine  like  the  sun  through  the  rain  ! 

He  won  not  the  coveted  bauble  of  fame, 

He  died  unhonored,  unknown  ; 
Yet  deep  in  his  breast  must  have  burned  the  flame 

Of  dire  despair,  as  is  shown 

In  his  verses'  grief-burdened  tone. 

Ah,  well,  but  his  song  will  awaken  a  chord 

Responsive  in  many  a  heart, 
And  if,  while  living,  men  failed  to  applaud 

The  unknown  singer's  art, 

They  find  in  death  his  truer  part. 


26  THE   UNKNOWN  SINGER. 

For  he  must  have  suffered  who  sang  so  sweet, 
And  each  heart  that  has  suffered  alone 

Will  find  in  his  verse  a  responsive  beat  — 
Wherefore,  though  his  name  be  unknown, 
Our  poet  is  immortal  grown  ! 


N 


AWAITING  THE   END. 

'EVER  again  to  know 

Health's  warming,  radiant  glow ; 
Never  again  to  feel  the  pulse's  quickened  beat, 
The  sinews  pliant  as  steel,  tempered  in  action's  heat, 
The  sweat  of  honest  toil,  bringing  its  respite  sweet ; 
But  day  and  night,  night  and  day, 
To  mark  the  body's  slow  decay, 
And  know  that  Death  scores  one  in  the  game 
(In  sunshine  and  shadow  all  the  same), 
Every  day,  every  day  ! 

Never  again  to  dream 
Of  all  that  may  be,  or  seem, 

In  the  sunlit  future  hid  from  the  eager  eyes  of  youth ; 
Never  to  raise  the  lid  of  the  precious  casket  of  truth ; 
Never  to  hope  to  delve  in  the  field  of  thought,  forsooth  : 
But  day  and  night,  night  and  day, 
To  watch  the  hours  waste  away, 
Still  in  the  world  and  still  not  of  it  — 
Still  learning  more  and  more  to  love  it, 
Every  day,  every  day  ! 


28  AWAITING   THE  END. 

Never  again  to  stand 
In  the  thick  of  the  battle  grand  — 
In  the  God-led  battle  of  life,  the  goodliest  battle  of  all, 
Where  noble  it  were  in  the  strife,  manfully  fighting, 

to  fall ; 

Never  in  action's  ranks  to  answer  the  bugle-call  — 
But  day  and  night,  night  and  day, 
To  passively  sit  and  watch  the  fray, 
With  a  skeleton  spectre  always  nigh  — 
Oh,  worse  than  a  thousand  times  to  die 
Every  day,  every  day  ! 


N 


OLE   BULL. 

OW,  yeoman  and  patrician, 

Weep  for  the  great  magician, 
Whose  clay-freed  spirit  hears 
The  music  of  those  spheres 
Which  ever  he  dreamed  of  in  earthly  years  — 
Weep,  for  he  's  dead  and  worthy  of  your  tears  ! 

What  melodies  have  died  with  him, 

What  million  eyes  have  cried  with  him, 

What  million  hearts  have  sighed  with  him, 
Moved  by  the  rare  magician  — 
By  the  more  than  mere  musician  — 

By  the  poet  whose  soul  found  speech 

In  the  melodies  seraphim  teach  ! 

Ah,  passing  our  mortal  reach 

Was  the  scope  of  his  God-lit  fire  ! 

Its  flame  leaped  high  and  higher, 

Till  it  soared  in  the  realms  which  inspire 

All  noble  thought,  all  deeds  heroic  ; 

And  the  world  was  better  because  he  lived  in  it ; 

His  genius  made  him  no  churlish  stoic ; 


30  OLE  BULL. 

In  the  woof  of  Life,  while  't  was  his  to  spin  it, 
He  wove  Love's  golden  thread  — 
Alack  that  the  woof  is  torn  to  a  shred, 
Alack  that  our  good  old  friend  is  dead  ! 

Through  wonderful  realms  he  led  us, 
On  the  nectar  of  sound  he  fed  us, 
Till  a  subtile  charm  o'erspread  us, 

And  we  grew  half  drunk  with  melody, 

Half  drunk  with  a  rapture  of  ecstasy, 
And  the  soul  of  the  violin, 

As  it  poured  itself  out,  became 
Now  the  wail  of  the  lost  in  sin, 

Now  the  trumpet-blare  of  fame ; 
It  raged,  it  howled,  it  moaned, 
It  cried,  it  shrieked,  it  groaned ; 
Then  lo  !  by  a  single  wave 

Of  the  wand  of  the  rare  enchanter, 
It  turned  from  accents  grave 

To  the  sharp,  quick  beat  of  a  canter, 
And  in  place  of  solemn  sounds  it  gave 

The  veriest,  merriest  banter. 
It  laughed  the  silvery  laugh  of  a  child, 
It  gurgled  like  brooks  in  forests  wild, 
It  spoke  Love's  language  undented, 
And  cooed  and  sang  like  wanton  birds 
In  speech  too  dainty  for  spoken  words. 
And  its  notes,  like  some  celestial  balm, 
Threw  o'er  the  soul  a  restful  calm, 


OLE  BULL.  31 

Till  it  seemed  that  all  life's  intricate  riddle 
Was  solved  at  last  by  the  master's  fiddle  ! 

Let  his  violin  evermore  rest 

Insensate  and  dumb, 
For  its  notes  would  be  wailings  at  best, 

Till  another  shall  come 

The  equal  of  him  who  so  cherished  and  loved  it- 
Aye,  let  it  be  dumb,  for  the  soul  that  once  moved  it, 

That  moved  it  to  joy,  or  to  sorrow's  sharp  stings, 

Would  wail  through  the  strings, 

And  a  sound,  as  of  wings, 
A  sad,  rustling  sound,  would  hover  around 

Its  dismal,  discordant  mutterings  ! 

If  never  the  bleak  Norwegian  coast 

Shall  give  us  more, 
Let  this,  then,  be  its  future  boast : 

That  from  its  shore 
Came  he  for  whom  the  yeoman  and  patrician 

Wept  when  he  died  — 
Wept  for  the  great  magician,  wept  for  the  rare  musician, 

And  the  man,  beside  ! 


THE   WORLD   STILL   GOOD. 

I  THOUGHT  me  in  the  Winter  drear, 
When  Death's  grim  form  above  me  bent 
Ah,  let  me  live  till  Spring  is  here, 
And  I  will  die  content ! 

But  when  the  flowers  bloomed,  and  when 

A  balmy  fragrance  filled  the  air, 
I  prayed  that  I  might  once  again 

Behold  the  Summer  fair. 

The  Summer  waned.     Then  best  of  all 
The  Autumn  seemed,  with  hazy  sky ; 

Oh,  let  me  live  till  red  leaves  fall  — 
T  were  fittest  then  to  die  ! 

About  me  now  the  withered  leaves 
Are  blown  by  chill  November's  breath ; 

Yet  still  the  soul  within  me  clings 
To  earth,  and  shrinks  from  death. 

So,  whether  in  the  Winter  drear, 

Or  under  Summer's  softer  sky, 
The  world  still  seems  too  dear,  too  dear, 

To  make  it  good  to  die  ! 


MY   BOYHOOD'S   HOME. 

I  THREAD  again  the  old,  familiar  ways, 
Where  once,  a  child,  I  trod  long  years  ago ; 
I  may  not  count  the  many  weary  days 

Which  since  have  passed,  nor  do  I  care  to  know 
The  changes  Time  hath  wrought.  Enough  to  find 
That  all  is  here,  as  pictured  in  my  mind. 

The  house,  low-gabled,  with  its  overhanging  eaves, 
The  babbling  brook,  still  running  at  my  feet, 

The  elms  and  maples,  with  their  whispering  leaves, 
The  odor  from  the  pastures  fresh  and  sweet  — 

All  these  are  here,  and,  looking  at  them  now, 

I  find  no  trace  of  age  on  Nature's  brow. 

Beneath  this  well-remembered  oak  I  stand, 
And  lo  !  the  years  turn  back.     The  weary  man 

Is  once  again  the  boy,  who  dreamed  and  planned 
When  every  dream  was  golden,  every  plan 

Heroic,  noble,  possible  and  fair, 

And  thoughts  themselves  were  castles  in  the  air. 
3 


34  MY  BOYHOOD'S  HOME. 

How  pleasant  then  the  world  !     How  bright  and  good  ! 

How  sweet  the  morrow,  how  complete  the  day  ! 
I  quaffed  the  cup  of  joy,  nor  understood 

How  cruel  Fate  might  snatch  the  cup  away ; 
The  trees,  the  fields,  the  babbling  brook  that  blends 
Its  music  with  the  birds'  —  these  were  my  friends. 

They  are  not  changed.  They  know  me  even  now, 
And  greet  me  with  a  welcome  warm  and  true ; 

The  fresh-lipped  boy  and  man  with  furrowed  brow 
Are  one  to  them  —  the  one  they  loved  and  knew 

Long  years  ago,  before  his  heart  had  grown 

As  dead  and  heavy  as  a  thing  of  stone. 

From  crowded  cities,  reeking  in  their  sin, 

I  come  again  to  this  my  early  shrine : 
The  door  stands  open,  and  I  enter  in 

Where  all  is  pure  and  gracious  and  divine ; 
And,  comforted  by  memory's  mighty  spell, 
I  say  :  "  This  is  the  spot  where  God  did  dwell !  " 


T 


OVER  THE   RUINS. 

EARS  for  the  dead  whose  bodies  lent 
Fuel  for  Death's  grim  sacrament. 


Here  is  the  spot  where  the  ruins  black, 
Smoulder  and  smoke  in  a  steaming  stack, 
Scorched,  and  singed,  and  baked,  and  charred 
Here  was  the  playhouse,  evil-starred. 

This  was  the  stage,  and  there  was  the  pit, 
And  the  gallery  there  —  God  pity  it !  — 
And  here  in  the  centre,  buried  deep, 
Under  this  blackened,  smoking  heap, 
Are  human  bodies  —  none  may  know 
How  many  there  are  lying  low  — 
Bodies  crisp,  begrimed  and  charred, 
With  limbs  distorted,  faces  marred, 
Burned  in  the  playhouse,  evil-starred. 

Not  one  of  those  who  came  to  see 

The  actors  mimic  grief  portray, 
Could  guess  how  stern  a  tragedy 

Would  end  the  sorrow-burdened  play. 


36  OVER   THE  RUINS. 

And  who  shall  tell  their  terrible  fate  ? 

The  hungry  flames,  like  a  hungry  fiend, 
Hissed,  and  roared,  and  greedily  ate 

The  flesh  from  the  bones  of  those  who  screened, 
From  the  stifling  smoke  and  horrible  heat, 

Their  blinded  eyes,  with  arms  upraised  — 
Then  died  in  their  agony.     Who  shall  repeat 

The  torture  of  those  who,  stricken  and  dazed, 
Fell,  crushed  and  mangled  under  the  feet 
Of  the  surging,  struggling,  maddened  mass, 
Fighting  its  way  through  the  narrow  pass  ? 
Ah,  what  a  fearful  struggle  was  that 
Which  the  fierce,  hot  love  of  life  begat ! 
A  struggle  for  self,  a  battle  for  breath, 
In  the  face  of  a  torturous,  fiery  death. 
What  shrieks  of  anguish  rent  the  air ; 
What  moans  and  groans  of  grim  despair ; 
What  desperation  and  despair, 
Was  pictured  in  that  awful  glare  ! 
And  here  are  the  bodies,  blackened  and  charred, 

Friends  and  fathers,  wives  and  mothers, 

Husbands,  children,  sisters,  brothers, 
Limbs  distorted,  faces  marred, 
Burned  in  the  playhouse,  evil-starred. 

Tears  for  the  dead  whose  bodies  lent 
Fuel  for  Death's  grim  sacrament. 
Theirs  was  the  agony,  bitter  and  brief, 
Ours  the  heartache  and  lingering  grief. 


OVER   THE  RUINS.  37 

Tears  for  the  homes  that  are  stricken  to-day, 
Mourning  the  loved  ones  snatched  away, 
Mourning  the  lost  who  shall  come  no  more ; 
Tears  for  the  hearts  that  are  bleeding  and  sore ; 
Tears  for  the  living  not  less  than  the  dead  — 
The  living  who  will  not  be  comforted ; 
Who  weep  over  bodies  blackened  and  charred, 
Burned  in  the  playhouse,  evil-starred. 


THE   BOY  THAT   I   KNEW. 

AMONG  the  people  I  Ve  chanced  to  know, 
In  the  course  of  my  varied  career, 
Was  a  certain  youngster  who,  years  ago, 

I  held  exceedingly  dear ; 
A  rollicking,  blue-eyed,  mischievous  lad — 
Not  painfully  good  nor  shockingly  bad, 
Though  a  trifle  precocious,  I  fear. 

He  was  wise  in  the  larger  wisdom  that  comes 
While  the  fingers  still  number  one's  years ; 

He  was  staggered  by  none  of  life's  hard  sums, 
Dismayed  by  none  of  its  fears. 

The  future  that  stretched  away  at  his  feet 

Was  full  of  promise  and  tempting  and  sweet, 
And  free  from  the  gall  of  tears. 

And  wonderful  things  he  intended  to  do  — 

This  boy  whom  I  used  to  know  ; 
For  fame  he  would  win,  and  a  fortune,  too, 

When  to  man's  estate  he  should  grow. 
He  would  help  the  poor,  lift  up  the  oppressed, 
And  cause  his  name  by  the  world  to  be  blessed, 

As  he  told  me,  with  cheeks  aglow. 


THE  BOY  THAT  I  KNEW.  39 

And  then,  in  good  time,  he  would  woo  and  wed 

A  maiden  bewitchingly  fair, 
With  eyes  like  the  night  and  lips  ruby  red, 

And  coils  of  raven-black  hair ; 
And  she  should  be  always  and  ever  his  queen  — 
The  prettiest  girl  that  the  world  has  seen  — 

His  joys  and  his  triumphs  to  share. 

Ah,  well  for  that  youngster  of  other  days, 

And  well  for  his  golden  plans  ; 
If  he  failed  to  tread  in  the  dreamed-of  ways, 

Call  the  fault  not  the  boy's,  but  the  man's  ; 
If  the  world,  as  he  found  it,  was  not  the  same 
As  that  which  he  dreamed  would  bring  honor  and  fame, 

'T  was  the  world  which  youth  ever  scans  ! 

They  tell  me  he  still  is  alive  —  the  boy 
Whom  I  knew  in  the  years  long  fled  — 

And  I  would  not  their  simple  faith  destroy, 
Though,  in  truth,  I  know  he  is  dead  ! 

He  died  when  the  freshness  of  faith  went  out 

In  disappointment  and  sorrow  and  doubt, 
And  the  man  was  born  instead  ! 


Yes,  he  died  forever,  the  laughing  lad, 

When  the  bitter  lesson  he  learned 
That  the  world  grows  bleak  and  the  soul  grows  sad, 

Whatever  the  hopes  that  have  burned. 


40  THE  BOY  THAT  I  KNEW. 

He  died,  and  the  trustful,  happy  youth, 
Who  jumped  at  the  stars  and  guessed  at  the  truth, 
To  the  doubting  cynic  was  turned  ! 

I  know  that  the  world  declares  to-day 
That  I  am  that  youngster  of  old  — 

That  the  man  is  the  boy  grown  bearded  and  gray  - 
But  the  world  has  been  wrongfully  told  ! 

For  Time  he  killed  the  gentle  youth  — 

With  the  sharp,  keen  blade  of  naked  Truth  — 
And  left  him  stark  and  cold  ! 


NOTHING  UNDER  THE   SUN   IS   NEW. 

NOTHING  under  the  sun  is  new  — 
The  old  was  old  in  Solomon's  day, 
The  false  was  false  and  the  true  was  true, 
As  the  false  and  true  will  be  alway. 

The  Pharisee  walks  in  the  public  place 
With  his  broad  phylacteries  displayed, 

And  makes  the  prayers  with  a  solemn  face 
That  a  thousand  years  ago  he  made. 

The  Priest  and  the  Levite  still  pass  by, 

While  the  wounded  wretch,  on  the  other  side, 

Appeals  in  vain  with  beseeching  eye 
For  the  helping  hand  so  coldly  denied. 

Now  Lazarus  begs  at  Dives'  gate 

For  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  his  ample  feast ; 
And  never  a  fear  of  his  future  fate 

Disturbs  the  rich  man's  soul  in  the  least. 


NOTHING  UNDER  THE  SUN  IS  NEW. 

And  Magdalen  crouches  in  dumb  despair, 
Alone  at  the  foot  of  the  altar-stone, 

And  nobody  heeds  her  lying  there, 

Or  hears  her  prayer  in  its  anguished  moan. 

So  nothing  under  the  sun  is  new  — 
The  old  was  old  in  Solomon's  day  — 

But  where  are  the  workers,  faithful  and  true, 
Who  lifted  the  fallen  along  the  way  ? 

Will  the  good  Samaritan  come  no  more  ? 

Is  the  strength  of  the  chosen  weak  and  cold  ? 
Are  faith  and  hope  and  charity  o'er? 

Is  it  only  love  that  dies  when  old? 

Nay,  love  survives,  and  brave  souls  live, 
And  generous  deeds  are  done  by  the  few, 

While  the  many  accept  what  the  martyrs  give, 
And  —  nothing  under  the  sun  is  new  ! 


THE   LOVE  THAT  WAS. 

LOVE  must  die,  or  good  or  bad, 
But,  oh,  let  it  make  us  glad 
That  we  have,  or  that  we  had  ! 

Flying  high,  or  flying  low, 
Love  is  Fancy,  don't  you  know? 
A  fancy  only  born  to  go. 

Now  't  is  over.     Hide  with  leaves 
Love  in  dark  November  eves, 
While  his  shroud  pale  Winter  weaves. 

May  no  darksome  thread  of  sin 

Ever  there  be  woven  in, 

Brightly  clothe  the  Love  that 's  been. 

He  was  Eros,  lord  of  dream  — 
Cupid  shooting  starry  beam  — 
Wine  of  hearts  he  made  them  seem  ! 

Alas  !  his  going  left  us  sad, 

But  still  this  thought  shall  make  us  glad 

That  once,  at  least,  true  Love  we  had. 


MY  LAST   LOVE. 

I  HAVE  loved  a  score  of  loves, 
Maidens  dark  and  maidens  fair, 
Maidens  soft  as  snow-white  doves, 

Maidens  crowned  with  sunlit  hair, 
Maidens  low  and  maidens  high  — 
All  at  times  I  Ve  loved,  have  I, 
But  I  never  loved  before 

Such  a  maid  as  this  who  's  come 
From  the  silent,  unseen  shore, 

Cold  and  passionless  and  dumb. 

Oh,  her  lips  are  icy  cold, 

And  her  brow  is  lily  white, 
And  when  my  form  she  doth  enfold, 

All  within  the  starless  night, 
Sometimes  I  do  shiver,  though 
Resting  on  a  breast  of  snow  ! 
Sometimes  I  do  quake  with  fear 

At  my  love  so  strange,  so'  still ; 
And  I  tremble  to  draw  near 

The  maid  whose  very  breath  is  chill. 


MY  LAST  LOVE. 

Strange,  this  maid,  perhaps  you  '11  say  — 

A  cruel,  heartless,  cold  coquette  — 
The  thousand  loves  she  has  to-day 

Before  to-morrow  she  '11  forget ! 
But  other  thousands  will  have  come  — 
White-lipped  and  passionless  and  dumb  — 
And  these,  with  all  her  siren  grace, 

Forevermore  her  charm  will  hold ; 
She  '11  clasp  them  in  her  chill  embrace, 

And  kiss  them  with  her  lips  ice-cold  ! 

And  who  is  she,  this  maiden  rare, 

Who  chills  her  lovers  with  her  breath  ? 
What  is  the  name  that  she  doth  bear? 

A  simple  name  indeed  —  't  is  Death  ! 
Aye,  I  have  loved  of  loves  a  score, 
But  only  Death  shall  I  love  more ; 
For  though  her  kiss  be  icy  cold, 

And,  though  I  sometimes  grow  afraid, 
Yet  well  I  know  that  bliss  untold 

Awaits  my  nuptials  with  the  maid  ! 


45 


THE   POOR   POET'S   SCRAP-BOOK. 

AND  this  only  is  left !     Cold  comfort,  these  fancies, 
To  creditors  crowding  about  with  their  bills ; 
If  the  butcher  took  verses,  the  baker  romances, 

To  settle  their  claims,  't  would  have  lessened  his  ills. 

Yet  he  cherished  these  scraps,  and  tenderly,  knowing, 
In  spite  of  their  faults,  he  fathered  them  all ; 

Well  it  became  him,  such  charity  showing 
To  children  so  weak  and  puny  and  small. 

Their  life,  like  his  own,  was  the  vagabond's  always ; 

Like  him,  they  discovered  true  friends  to  be  rare ; 
Now  hiding  in  attics,  now  lurking  in  hallways, 

Nor  songs  nor  singer  earth's  blessings  could  share. 

And  yet,  if  they  never  have  known  the  glories 

Of  gilded  bindings  and  library  shelves, 
Perhaps  they  have  carried  their  simple  stories 

To  some  who  welcomed  them  for  themselves. 


THE  POOR  POETS  SCRAP-BOOK.       47 

If  somewhere,  at  some  time,  the  eyes  of  a  maiden 
Have  brightened  because  of  this  sonnet  on  love ; 

If  somebody's  heart  with  grief  heavy-laden 
Has  comforted  been  by  the  stanzas  above  ; 

If  the  marvellous  riches  which  truth  inherits 
Are  made  to  appear  more  worthy  of  gain  — 

Then,  spite  of  their  weakness,  their  many  demerits, 
These  scraps,  let  us  say,  were  not  written  in  vain. 

While  to  him,  the  poor  poet,  whose  spark  of  God's  fire 
Went  out  in  these  lines,  in  the  battle  for  bread, 

What  matters  it  now?     Is  there  any  round  higher 
Than  that  which  he  stepped  to  last  night  from  his  bed  ? 


THE   BABY'S   PICTURE. 

V 

THE  smile  upon  the  baby's  face 
Here  in  the  picture  lingers, 
And  close  about  the  entwining  lace 

Are  clasped  his  chubby  fingers. 
'T  was  thus  he  sat  with  laughing  eyes, 

In  momentary  wonder, 
His  long  white  dress  drawn  partly  up, 
His  pink  toes  peeping  under. 

You  should  have  heard  his  merry  crow, 

This  cunningest  of  creatures, 
When  first  the  baby  came  to  know 

His  pretty  pictured  features. 
He  gazed  upon  the  face  full  oft, 

His  eyes  responsive  beaming, 
As  if,  indeed,  the  picture  shared 

The  day-dreams  he  was  dreaming. 

His  life  appeared  so  full  of  joy, 
The  sunshine  of  its  morning, 

When  sickness  touched  our  baby-boy, 
We  hardly  felt  its  warning. 

We  could  not  hear  the  distant  voice 
In  awful  summons  calling ; 


THE  BABY^S  PICTURE. 

We  could  not  see  the  shades  of  Death 
About  our  pathway  falling. 

But  all  too  soon  the  knowledge  came 

That  his  brief  life  was  ending ; 
That  o'er  his  little  trundle-bed 

An  angel  form  was  bending 
To  convoy  him  to  that  strange  land, 

So  near  despite  its  distance, 
Where  he  should  solve  the  mystery 

That  shrouds  the  soul's  existence. 

And  when  that  dreaded  hour  had  come, 

When  faith  was  sorely  tested, 
The  little  sufferer  stretched  his  hand 

To  where  his  picture  rested  ; 
And  when  we  held  it  up  to  him, 

In  accents  sweet  and  mellow 
He  said,  repeating  what  he  'd  heard  : 

"  Good-bye  !  poor  little  fellow  !  " 

And  that  is  all.     We  bow  in  grief 

To  Heaven's  mysterious  warning, 
But  half  the  sunshine  of  our  lives 

Went  out  in  that  gray  morning. 
And  so  we  prize  this  pictured  face 

Where  baby's  smile  still  lingers, 
And  where,  about  the  entwining  lace, 

Are  clasped  the  chubby  fingers. 


49 


T 


IN   EXTREMIS. 

VHIS  hand  is  as  steady 

As  when,  in  the  old  days, 
It  plucked  the  already 

Ripe  fruit  from  Life's  tree  — 

The  apples  that  weighted  the  boughs  in  the  gold  days, 
When  blazed  the  great  sun  of  promise  for  me. 


Yes,  perfectly  steady, 

With  no  trace  of  trembling, 
Though  all  is  now  ready, 
This  dainty  glass  here  : 

Pray,  observe,  there  is  nothing  remotely  resembling 
The  outward  expression  of  commonplace  fear. 


Yet  I  stand  on  the  threshold 

Of  the  realmless  Hereafter, 
Too  late  to  take  fresh  hold 

On  hope  or  on  life  ; 

Never  more  on  my  ear  shall  sound  the  glad  laughter 
Of  children,  still  eager  and  hot  for  the  strife. 


IN  EXTREMIS.  5  I 

For  here,  in  this  wine-glass  — 

This  colorless  liquor  — 
This  rare,  this  divine  glass, 
The  power  I  Ve  caught 
To  send  the  soul  on  to  its  destiny  quicker 
Than  speeds  the  intangible  essence  of  thought ! 

And  see,  now,  how  steady 

The  glass  is  uplifted  ! 
'T  is  drained  !     And  already 
I  'm  gasping  for  breath  — 
Out  on  the  icy,  black  waters  I  Ve  drifted  — 
Out  on  the  fathomless  ocean  called  death  ! 


A   NOVEMBER   REVERIE. 

I  CARE  not  for  your  Spring-time  fancies  • 
For  bursting  buds  or  opening  leaves  ; 
Give  me  the  wild,  weird  necromancies 

Which  Autumn,  rare  magician,  weaves  ! 
The  bowl  and  pipe  and  glowing  ember  — 
The  genial  soul  of  bleak  November  — 
To  these  alone  my  spirit  cleaves  ! 

What  recks  it  if  the  wind  goes  prowling 

In  and  out  among  the  trees  ? 
My  fancy  turns  its  dismal  howling 

Into  sweetest  melodies. 
And  while  the  fire  blazes  redly, 
I  listen  to  the  storm-king's  medley, 

In  lotus-like  and  dreamful  ease. 

Drawn  closely  is  each  crimson  curtain, 
The  argand-lamp  burns  dim  and  low  : 

While  shadows,  ghostly  and  uncertain, 
Like  phantoms  flicker  to  and  fro. 

Ah,  night  of  nights  on  which  to  ponder 

Upon  the  past,  to  dream  and  wonder  — 
And,  dreaming,  live  the  long-ago  ! 


A   NOVEMBER  REVERIE.  53 

I  hear  the  old,  familiar  voices 
That  thrilled  my  soul  in  other  days, 

And  once  again  my  soul  rejoices 

At  Love's  soft-spoken  words  of  praise. 

Again  the  sky,  with  all  the  olden 

Flush  of  promise,  glimmers  golden 
Before  my  eager,  dazzled  gaze. 

Again  the  future  lies  before  me, 

Outstretching  into  fairy-lands, 
While  Youth's  fair  genii  hover  o'er  me, 

And  Time  runs  on  in  burnished  sands. 
Again  I  trust  the  old  magician  — 
Again  I  dream  of  dead  ambition  — 

Aladdin's  lamp  is  in  my  hands  ! 

What  if  my  hopes  have  turned  to  ashes  ? 

What  if  the  years  have  brought,  instead 
Of  apples,  only  calabashes  — 

And  thorns  in  place  of  roses  red  ? 
I  would  not  ask  to  live  it  over  — 
No  —  both  on  thistle  and  on  clover 

In  life's  long  journey  we  must  tread. 

And  if  my  path  has  sometimes  wended 
Through  places  treacherous  to  the  feet, 

Still,  take  the  good  and  evil  blended, 

The  whole  seems  rounded  and  complete. 


54  A   NOVEMBER  REVERIE. 

Yes,  looking  back  upon  my  measure 

Of  earthly  pain  and  earthly  pleasure, 

And  I  can  say  that  life  was  sweet. 

And  so  to-night  I  sit  here  dreaming 
Of  what  has  come  in  all  these  years, 

While  in  the  lamplight's  mellow  gleaming 
Full  many  a  vanished  form  appears. 

I  live  again  the  old  romances. 

And,  lo,  from  Time's  forgotten  fancies 
I  catch  the  laugh  without  the  tears  ! 


THE   TWO   WISHERS. 

OUT  in  the  street,  this  Winter's  day, 
A  brawny  man  is  shovelling  snow 
Steadily  there  he  works  away 

With  muscular  arms  and  face  aglow, 
Glad  to  earn  a  pittance  for  pay,  — 
Shovelling  off  the  snow. 

Unto  eyes  that  can  only  see 

The  tangible  outward,  here  is  one 

Who  suffers  the  stings  of  poverty, 

Who  wearily  drudges  from  sun  to  sun, 

Whose  shackled  hours  are  never  free, 
Whose  work  is  never  done. 


For  ragged  he  is,  and  scantily  clad, 

And  one  would  be  willing  to  hazard  the  guess 
That  meat  and  bread  are  not  to  be  had 

By  him  and  his  in  plenteousness  ; 
For  all  his  life  he  has  shovelled  through 

The  drifts  of  want  and  distress. 


56  THE   TWO    WISHERS. 

Yet  a  keener  vision  might  detect 

Some  priceless  things  which  belong  to  him : 
Muscles  of  iron,  a  form  erect, 

An  eye  that  is  never  glazed  or  dim  ; 
And  the  rich,  hot  blood  of  perfect  health, 

Coursing  through  body  and  limb. 

Now,  across  the  street  from  the  shoveller  stands 
A  stately  mansion  built  of  stone  ; 

And  there,  in  the  window,  with  folded  hands, 
A  pale-faced  man  looks  out  alone,  — 

Looks  out  at  the  laborer  over  the  way, 
At  the  snow  his  shovel  has  thrown. 


Exotic  plants  in  the  window  bloom, 
Shut  in  by  curtains  of  finest  lace, 

And  scattered  about  the  spacious  room 
Are  all  things  which  befit  the  place ; 

A  poor  man  might  subsist  a  year 
On  the  cost  of  that  Sevres  vase. 


Resting  a  moment,  the  shoveller  sees 
The  face  in  the  window  across  the  street, 

And  he  thinks  :  "  Could  I  live  like  that,  at  my  ease, 
With  nothing  to  do,  and  plenty  to  eat, 

With  money  and  servants  and  all  at  command, 
Then,  surely,  would  life  be  sweet !  " 


THE   TWO    WISHERS.  57 

And  he  wearily  sighs  as  he  turns  again 

To  the  work  unfinished  that  waits  his  hands  ; 

But  his  sigh  is  echoed  in  sharper  pain 

By  him  who  has  called  it  forth,  who  stands 

Watching  the  laborer,  while  he  thinks  : 
"  Houses  and  money  and  lands  — 

"  All  that  I  have  of  power  or  wealth  — 
I  would  freely  give  if  I  could  but  know 

The  rarer  riches  of  strength  and  health ; 
Yes,  all  on  the  laborer  there  I  'd  bestow, 

If  I,  like  him,  could  go  out  in  the  street, 
And  shovel  off  the  snow  ! " 


IN   GREENWOOD. 

I  SCENT  the  flowers'  perfumed  breath, 
Here  in  the  still  abode  of  Death. 
The  velvet  turf  beneath  my  feet 
Is  deeply  green  and  freshly  sweet. 
The  swaying  branches  overhead 
Shut  in  a  city  of  the  dead  — 
A  city  where  no  clamorous  din, 
Nor  strife  nor  tumult  enters  in. 

Proudly  rise  on  either  hand 
The  monuments  austere  and  grand  ; 
Polished  shaft  and  massive  base, 
Sculptured  bust  and  chiselled  vase, 
Marble  urn  and  granite  tomb, 
Whereon  the  rarest  flowers  bloom, 
As  if  they  sought,  by  pomp  and  pride, 
The  ghastliness  of  Death  to  hide  ! 

Past  the  sepulchred  display, 
To  one  lone  grave  I  wend  my  way. 
No  marble  column  here  is  found  — 
No  lordly  shaft  to  mark  the  mound. 


IN  GREENWOOD.  59 

And  yet  I  know  the  tears  I  shed 
Are  richer  tributes  to  my  dead 
Than  any  stone  by  sculptor  prized  — 
For  tears  are  Love's  griefs  crystallized  ! 


SONNET  ON  EDWIN  ADAMS. 

'  I  ^O-DAY  Melpomene  looks  down  and  sighs 

-t       In  honest  grief,  which  wrings  her  maiden  heart, 
And  fair  Thalia,  with  her  laughing  eyes 

All  wet  with  tears,  forgets  her  merry  part ; 
He  wooed  them  both,  and  won  from  both  the  prize 

Of  fame,  which  purifies  and  betters  art. 
So  let  them  weep  because  their  lover  lies 

Immovable  and  cold  in  Death's  embrace. 
But  what  is  art,  or  fame,  or  honor  won 

To  us,  who  gaze  upon  his  wasted  face, 
And,  gazing,  weep,  and,  weeping,  think  upon 

The  nobleness  and  all  the  tender  grace 
That  died  with  him  ?     O  Death,  thy  sting  is  sore  ! 
He  honored  Art,  but  honored  manhood  more  ! 


A  CIRCUS  MEMORY. 

I  WENT  to  the  circus  the  other  day 
With  this  youngster  here  —  he  is  six  years  old  — 
And  we  're  royal  friends,  though  my  head  is  gray, 
While  his,  you  observe,  is  the  color  of  gold. 

You  ought  to  have  seen  the  look  of  surprise 
(Alas,  that  surprise  should  wither  and  fade  !) 

That  brightened  and  gladdened  and  moistened  his  eyes, 
When  appeared  the  bespangled,  antique  cavalcade. 

'Twas  the  same  old  performance  you  saw  in  your 
youth  — 

Every  movement  familiar  through  thirty  long  years  — 
But  to  watch  my  boy's  pleasure  would  move  you,  in  truth, 

To  a  laugh  that  would  help  you  to  stifle  your  tears. 

And,  somehow,  my  fancies  went  wandering  by 
Into  realms  half- forgotten,  as  fancies  will  flow, 

To  the  day  when  my  brother  (poor  Johnny)  and  I, 
With  a  shilling  between  us,  set  out  for  the  show. 


62  A    CIRCUS  MEMORY. 

We  knew  when  we  started  that  one  must  stay  out 
While  the  other  went  in,  and  we  tossed  up  a  cent  — 

One  agonized  moment  of  longing  and  doubt, 
And  it  fell  in  his  favor  —  I  stayed,  and  he  went. 

For  two  mortal  hours,  with  never  a  pause, 
I  stood  by  the  tent  and  tried  hard  not  to  cry ; 

I  followed  the  music  and  heard  the  applause, 
Half  angry,  half  happy.     Ah,  well,  was  that  I  ? 

Was  it  I  who  waited  my  brother's  return, 
And  found  in  his  eyes  a  warm,  pitying  glow, 

When  he  said  :  "  Never  mind,  the  next  shilling  we  earn 
Shall  be  yours,  every  cent,  till  you  go  to  a  show  !  " 

This  golden-haired  youngster  has  brought  it  all  back  — 
A  picture  of  sunshine  and  sympathy  blent ; 

The  love  of  two  brothers  •  a  background  of  black ; 
For  his  summons  came  early,  —  I  stayed  and  he  went. 

The  circus,  I  take  it,  is  always  the  same, 
But  only  the  vision  of  boyhood  can  see 

Its  marvellous  wonders,  which  put  to  the  shame 
The  dull  comprehension  of  graybeards  like  me. 

My  little  companion  revives  an  old  pain 

By  his  innocent  pleasure,  his  happy  surprise. 

Come  here,  you  young  rascal !     I  '11  take  you  again. 
Heigh-ho  !  What  is  this  ?  There  are  tears  in  his  eyes  ! 


EDELWEISS. 

ON  cragged,  bleak  high  tops 
Of  the  Alps, 
Glistening  like  huge  Cyclops' 

Bald  scalps, 
Swept  by  the  breezes  blasting, 

Under  ice, 

Blooms  a  flower  everlasting  — 
The  edelweiss. 

When  to  maid  the  Swedish  lover 

Fain  would  show 
How  much  he  thinketh  of  her, 

He  doth  go 
Up  the  summits,  breathless, 

Capped  with  ice, 
To  gather  there  the  deathless 

Edelweiss. 

Oft  his  foothold  misses, 
And  he  's  thrown 

Down  the  deep  abysses, 
Like  a  stone ; 


64  EDELWEISS. 

They  find  him,  some  day,  clasping 
A  shroud  of  ice  — 

His  dead,  cold  fingers  grasping 
The  edelweiss  ! 

But  the  lover  who  thus  giveth 

Life  for  love, 
In  the  maiden's  bosom  liveth, 

Part  thereof ! 
On  all  her  future  casting 

Love's  device  — 
A  flower  as  everlasting 

As  edelweiss  ! 


I 


THE   SPARROW. 

"N  suits  of  English  brown, 

The  sparrows  of  the  town 
Accept  their  daily  bills  of  fare  with  well-contented  faces  ; 
Blest  dwellers  in  the  city, 
They  chirp  a  sigh  of  pity 

For  luckless  birds  whose  lots  are  cast   in  lonesome 
country  places. 

Bohemians  are  they, 
Who,  happy  for  the  day, 
Have  never  learned  to  vex  themselves  by  thinking  of 

the  morrow ; 

They  take  the  fate  that  comes, 
Along  with  all  the  crumbs, 

And  their  conscience  does  not  trouble  them  to  beg  or 
steal  or  borrow. 

At  early  morn  and  dark, 
From  the  Battery  to  the  Park, 

In   crowded   street   and   avenue  you  see  them,   self- 
reliant, 

Now  hopping  here  and  there, 
Now  standing  still  to  stare, 
So  prettily  pugnacious  and  so  jauntily  defiant. 
5 


66  THE  SPARROW. 

Without  a  task  or  master, 

They  live  as  fast,  or  faster 
Than  any  slinger  of  the  pen,  or  scissorer  and  sticker ; 

They  neither  sow  nor  reap, 

No  prudish  laws  they  keep, 
But  freely  make  of  tansy-dew  their  matutinal  liquor. 

Although  their  life  is  short, 

'T  is  all  a  time  of  sport, 
With  plenty  of  excitement  and  exhilaration  in  it ; 

Unlike  the  cooing  dove, 

When  the  sparrow  falls  in  love 

He  wooes  and  weds  and  gets  divorced,  and  all  within  a 
minute. 

A  useless  bird,  they  say, 

But  these  objectors  may, 

While   costing  more,  be  less   themselves   in  genuine 
utility. 

The  sparrow  eats  his  worms, 

And  stays  through  winter's  storms 
As  Nature's  cheerful  evidence  of  brave,  fecund  facility. 

Methinks  in  chirpy  speech 
These  feathered  vagrants  preach 
A  sermon  every  day  to  us  whose  faith  is  weak  and 

narrow. 

So  wisely  we  may  turn 
To  them  if  we  would  learn 

To  put  our  trust  in  Him  who  marks  the  fall  of  every 
sparrow. 


THE   BLACKSMITH   KING. 

UNDER  the  brow  of  the  hill,  over  there, 
Dwells  a  king,  —  a  king  who  's  my  neighbor ; 
For  subjects  he  has  three  children  fair 
And  a  sweet  little  wife,  with  bonny  brown  hair, 
And  his  realm  is  the  wonderful  realm  of  labor. 

You  may  hear  the  strokes  of  his  hammer  ring 
(For  a  hammer  's  the  sceptre  of  this  rare  king), 
While  his  throne  is  the  forge,  where,  all  the  day, 
Humming  a  tune,  he  works  away. 

Clang  !  clang  !     The  hammer  falls, 
And  the  sparks  fly  up  to  the  dusky  walls, 
And  the  bellows  blow  and  the  anvil  rings, 
While  honest  labor  its  blessing  brings,  — 
A  blessing  before  unknown  to  kings  ! 

Clang  !  clang  !     In  the  hammer's  stroke 

Re-echoes  the  music  of  long-gone  ages : 
'T  is  the  iron-throated  song  that  broke 
On  the  world  when  Tubal  Cain  first  woke 
Metallic  melodies,  heard  by  the  sages  ! 


68  THE  BLACKSMITH  KING. 

Clang  !  clang  !     It  is  muscle  that  sings  ! 
Clang  !  clang  !     Nor  tyrants  nor  kings 

Can  feel  the  pride  of  my  honest  neighbor, 
Who  glories  to  know  that  his  every  blow 

Is  a  note  in  the  world-old  anthem  of  labor  ! 

And  so  has  he  fashioned  his  humble  life 

As  he  fashions  the  iron,  with  brawny  blows ; 
Out  of  the  fire  of  hatred  and  strife 
His  nature  into  harmony  grows, 
Still  softened  by  love,  by  labor  made  strong, 
Loving  the  right  and  hating  the  wrong, 
As  happy  as  ever  the  day  is  long  — 
Who  dare  speak  of  the  curse  of  labor, 
Beholding  the  king  over  there,  my  neighbor? 

Sweet  is  the  sweat  of  honest  toil, 

And  sweet  is  the  rest  that  follows  after ; 
No  weary  burner  of  midnight  oil, 

No  bacchanal,  'mid  wine  and  laughter, 
Yet  did  know  or  even  can 
The  pleasures  possible  to  man. 

Possible  to  him  who  learns 

The  lesson  taught  by  honest  labor ; 

Who  eats  with  zest  the  bread  he  earns, 

While  in  his  soul  no  envy  burns 

Though  he  be  poorer  than  his  neighbor. 


THE  BLACKSMITH  KING.  69 

The  scholar  wins,  perchance,  a  name  ; 
The  poet  may  clutch  the  bubble  fame  ; 
The  warrior  hear  the  loud  huzzah  ; 
The  savant  find  an  unknown  star ; 
But  when  the  end,  at  last,  has  come, 
When  warrior  sleeps  and  poet  is  dumb, 
What  matters  then?     Where  lies  the  gain 
For  all  the  heartache  and  the  pain, 
The  striving,  yearning,  sweat  of  brain. 

Is  he  not  happier  who  can  say 

(As  can  the  blacksmith  over  the  way), 

"  Few  talents  unto  me  were  lent, 

But  in  their  stead  God  gave  content !  " 


DEAD   YESTERDAY. 

IN  the  dim  valley  of  perpetual  Peace, 
Where  bloom  unfading  all  the  flowers  of  May, 
Where  bright  birds  sing  sweet  songs  that  never  cease, 
I  sit  beside  the  grave  of  Yesterday. 

It  came  and  went,  and  is  not  any  more ; 

But  with  its  going  sped  the  light  of  hope, 
And  left  me  lonesome,  wandering  on  Life's  shore, 

Amid  the  wrecks  where  mortals  blindly  grope. 

To  have  again  the  pleasures  that  are  gone, 
To  tread  the  path  of  innocence  and  youth, 

Its  noontide  flush,  the  glory  of  its  dawn, 

To  gain  the  past,  were  Heaven's  own  joy  in  truth. 

What  shall  survive  when  dust  is  turned  to  dust, 
And  man  surrenders  his  poor,  fleeting  breath  — 

What  save  sweet  Memory  shall  resist  the  rust 
Of  Time's  corroding  tooth  —  the  sting  of  Death  ! 

If  this  be  immortality,  I  sing 

Its  praise  and  wait  contented  as  I  may 

For  that  most  welcome  future  which  shall  bring 
The  resurrection  of  dead  Yesterday. 


R' 


OCTOBER. 

ARE  month  of  October, 

Thy  robes,  russet-sober, 
Are  thrown  over  earth  like  a  mantle  with  fringing 
Of  crimson  and  gold ; 
All  fair  to  behold 

Are  the  many  bright  hues  of  the  deep  colors  tingeing 
The  leaves  dropping  down  — 
Some  are  red,  some  are  brown, 
Some  are  dashed  with  vermilion,  and  some  with  burnt 

umber, 
And  all  in  their  glory  they  fall  without  number. 

Ah,  better  than  Summer 

Is  this  latest  comer, 
This  month  in  the  Autumn,  delightful  and  golden ; 

For  earth  is  now  mellow, 

And  sunshine  is  yellow, 
And  blood  in  the  veins  like  wine  is  that 's  olden  ! 

A  matron  thou  art, 

October,  whose  heart 
Is  riper  in  love  than  any  green  maiden  — 
Than  May,  with  her  blushes  and  buds  overladen. 


72  OCTOBER. 

Oh,  month  of  rare  splendor, 

Red-hearted  and  tender, 
WTith  what  a  new  glory  the  world  you  have  flooded  ! 

Enraptured  I  stand 

Looking  forth  on  a  land 
Where  color  runs  riot  and  forest  is  studded 

With  all  the  bright  hues 

Which  prisms  diffuse ; 
Afar  in  the  distance  the  robin  is  calling, 
While  silently  round  me  the  red  leaves  are  falling. 

Ah,  month  of  October, 

Why  grows  my  heart  sober 
When  Earth  is  thus  clad  in  a  raiment  of  glory  ? 

Thy  gaudy-hued  splendor, 

Thy  days  sweet  and  tender, 
Alas,  they  bring  back  to  my  mind  the  old  story  : 

How  soon  shall  the  red  leaves 

Turn  into  dead  leaves  ? 

And  all  the  fond  hopes  which  I  cling  to  and  cherish  — 
How  soon,  like  these  leaves,  shall   they   wither   and 
perish  ? 


WHY  DO  THE  WRINKLES  COME  ? 

LITTLE  Bo  Peep  climbs  on  to  my  knee  — 
Little  Bo  Beep  is  four  years  old. 
And  what  her  bright,  blue  eyes  don't  see 
Would  need  a  microscope  to  behold. 

She  pulls  my  beard  —  that 's  one  of  her  tasks ; 

She  pokes  my  cheek  with  her  little  fat  thumb, 
Then,  gazing  straight  in  my  face,  she  asks : 

"  What  is  it  that  makes  the  wrinkles  come  ?  " 

Ah,  little  Bo  Peep,  you  cannot  guess 

How  hard  is  the  question  you  thus  propound ; 

It  calls  for  greater  wisdom  (or  less) 
Than  ever  philosopher  yet  has  found. 

There  was  a  time,  my  little  Bo  Peep, 

When  my  face  was  as  smooth  as  yours  is  now, 

When  never  a  line  nor  wrinkle  deep 
Had  left  its  imprint  on  my  brow. 

A  time  when  I  woke  from  balmy  sleep 

To  find  life  always  a  glad  surprise  ; 
When  I  laughed  as  you  laugh,  my  little  Bo  Peep, 

And  looked  on  the  world  with  the  same  big  eyes. 


74 


WHY  DO  THE  WRINKLES  COME  ? 


Ah,  well,  I  laughed  and  loved  and  grew  old, 

Working  away  at  life's  hard  sum, 
And  half  was  dross  that  I  dreamed  was  gold  — 

And  so  the  wrinkles  began  to  come. 

Yes,  that  is  the  way,  my  little  Bo  Peep  — 

As  near  as  I  can  tell  you  now  — 
That  is  the  way  the  furrows  deep, 

One  by  one,  crept  over  my  brow. 

When  I  saw  the  glad,  bright  dreams  of  youth, 
Like  the  roses  of  Summer,  wither  away ; 

When  I  learned  how  the  fragrant  flower  of  Truth 
By  the  thistles  of  Falsehood  was  strangled  one  day ; 

When  the  faith  I  placed  in  man  was  returned 
By  man's  ingratitude,  blacker  than  night ; 

When  the  hard  and  bitter  truth  had  been  learned 
That  might,  in  this  world,  too  often  makes  right ; 

When  I  saw  the  good  borne  down  and  oppressed, 
The  wicked  triumphant  in  their  shame, 

The  Samaritan  scorned  and  the  Pharisee  blessed  — 
Then,  little  Bo  Peep,  the  wrinkles  came  ! 

But  may  you  in  the  sunshine  forever  bask, 

So  that,  when  the  years  shall  have  made  you  gray, 

Some  future  Bo  Peep,  gazing  at  you,  shall  ask  : 
What  is  it  that  keeps  the  wrinkles  away  ? 


CITY  VIOLETS. 

IN  the  heart  of  the  turbulent  city, 
Through  the  din  and  the  dust  and  the  heat, 
I  come  to  the  flower-girl,  selling 
Her  wares  on  the  curb  of  the  street. 

Red  roses  and  velvet-leaved  pansies, 

With  the  modest,  blue  violets  — 
A  flower  as  fresh  and  as  fragrant 

As  the  memories  which  it  begets. 

Take  the  roses  that  blush  in  their  beauty, 

Take  the  pansies  of  royal  hue ; 
But  leave  me  the  violets  dainty, 

The  violets  modest  and  blue. 

For  they  hint  of  the  breezy  country, 
Of  meadow  and  woodland  and  field ; 

And,  like  balm  to  my  weary  spirit, 
Is  the  perfume  which  they  yield. 


76  CITY  VIOLETS. 

Unused  to  the  riotous  city, 

I  fancy  they  open  their  eyes 
At  the  din  and  the  roar  and  the  racket, 

Filled  with  a  strange  surprise. 

Ah,  well,  for  those  days  unforgotten, 
When  I  gathered  such  flowers  as  these, 

When  I  wandered  through  woodland  meadow, 
A  friend  of  the  birds  and  the  trees  ! 

Ah,  well,  for  the  hopes  I  have  buried, 
For  the  longings  and  vain  regrets, 

For  the  buds  of  promise  withered, 
Since  I  gathered  violets  ! 

I  knew  them  in  days  that  have  left  me, 
In  days  that  were  trustful  and  true, 

When  life,  like  the  violet  dainty, 

Was  colored  with  heaven's  own  hue. 

So  here,  in  the  heart  of  the  city, 
Where  want  with  affluence  blends, 

These  modest  flowers  greet  me 
Like  well-remembered  friends. 

Your  pansies  are  gaudily  splendid, 
But  I  like  not  their  purple  and  gold ; 

Your  roses,  red-hearted,  remind  me 
Of  beauties  too  brazenly  bold. 


CITY  VIOLETS.  77 

But  all  that  is  pure  and  modest 

Is  found  in  the  violet  sweet ; 
Like  a  maiden  whose  lips  are  virgin, 

Dainty,  demure  and  complete. 

Then  give  me  the  violets  modest, 

The  violets  modest  and  true, 
For  the  Past  is  embalmed  in  their  fragrance, 

And  heaven  beams  out  of  their  blue. 


THANKSGIVING  REFLECTIONS. 

FOR  what  shall  we  offer  thanks,  my  wife, 
For  what  have  we  to  be  grateful  to-day? 
What  blessings  have  come  to  brighten  our  life, 

In  the  year  that  has  wearily  rolled  away  ? 
I  see  you  standing  there,  worn  and  weak, 
But  where  are  the  roses  that  crimsoned  your  cheek 

In  the  happier  days  gone  by? 
Your  soft,  sweet  voice  still  falls  on  my  ear, 
But  where  is  the  laugh  I  was  wont  to  hear, 
Whenever  my  darling  was  nigh  ? 

Have  honors  come,  or  riches,  or  fame, 

Or  any  gifts  from  the  gods  above  ? 
Shall  we  feast  on  fish  and  flesh  and  game, 

And  drink  of  rare  old  wines,  my  love  ? 
Ah,  well,  but  sorrowful  guests  are  they 
Who  have  come  to  dine  with  us  this  day, 

To  revel  on  bread  and  cheese  ! 
For  Poverty,  Sickness,  Want  and  Woe, 
There  they  sit  in  a  ghastly  row, 

And  we  must  be  thankful  for  these  ! 


THANKSGIVING  REFLECTIONS.  79 

Be  thankful !     I  gaze  across  the  street, 

To  the  lordly  mansion  where  Croesus  lives ; 
How  good  is  the  world  to  him  —  how  sweet  — 
How  unctuous  the  thanks  he  always  gives  ! 
In  his  carriage  he  drives  to  church  to-day, 
On  velvet  cushions  to  kneel  and  pray 

For  the  blessings  Heaven  bestows  ; 
O  God,  how  easy  it  were  to  kneel 
When  one  has  never  been  called  to  feel 

The  sting  of  misfortune's  blows  ! 

And  why  unto  him  should  be  given  all, 

While  there  is  nothing  for  me  or  mine  ? 
Why  should  /drink  life's  bitter  gall, 

While  he  sips  only  its  sparkling  wine  ? 
Be  thankful !     And  here  in  anguish  I  lie, 
With  Death's  grim  shadow  hovering  nigh, 

And  hope  forever  gone  out  — 
Helpless  and  wretched,  with  naught  in  life 
But  you,  my  brave,  little,  noble  wife  — 
Lost  in  the  sea  of  doubt ! 

Ah,  easy  to  say  that  the  Lord  is  good, 

While  we  bask  in  the  rays  of  prosperity's  sun ; 

Easy  to  voice  our  gratitude, 

When  the  crown  is  ours,  the  victory  won. 

But,  ah,  in  the  face  of  want  and  despair, 

How  shall  we  bend  the  knee  in  prayer, 
Or  find  the  heart  to  pray  ? 


8o          THANKSGIVING  REFLECTIONS. 

How  can  we  offer  thanks,  when  life 
Is  nothing  but  wretchedness,  woe  and  strife, 
That  mock  this  festive  day? 

And  yet,  and  yet,  it  may  be,  my  love, 

Despite  the  shadows  which  darken  our  way, 
That  the  will  of  Him  who  ruleth  above 

Is  working  for  us  on  this  Thanksgiving  day. 
'T  is  true  that  we  may  not,  like  Croesus,  dine 
On  the  richest  viands,  the  rarest  wine, 
But  for  that  we  never  will  sigh ; 
For  we  will  drink  of  the  wine  of  love, 
And  that  is  something,  my  darling,  my  dove, 
Which  Croesus  never  can  buy  ! 


A   NEW   PHILOSOPHER. 

I  HAVE  found  a  philosopher  wiser  far 
Than  all  your  Huxleys,  Humes  or  Voltaires 
One  who  has  never  discovered  a  star, 
Nor  mounted  metaphysical  stairs  ; 
One  who  has  sought  not  to  sound  the  deeps 

Of  science,  nor  asked  wherefore  he  was  born ; 
One  who,  at  night,  goes  to  bed  and  sleeps, 
And  wakes  with  a  laugh  to  greet  the  morn. 

This  sage  philosopher  nothing  knows 

(And  less  would  care  if  know  he  could) 
Of  how  the  invertebrate  mollusk  grows  — 

Enough  for  him  that  oysters  are  good. 
He  never  would  try  to  tell  you  why 

Quinine  is  bitter  and  honey  is  sweet  — 
'T  would  all  his  philosophy  satisfy 

To  leave  the  drug  and  the  honey  eat ! 

The  baby-elephant  in  the  show 

Affords  him  a  world  of  fun  while  there, 

But  he  would  n't  give  a  peanut  to  know 
Why  pachydermatous  babes  are  rare  ! 
6 


82  A   NEW  PHILOSOPHER. 

Nor  when  the  monkeys  their  antics  play 
Does  the  task  on  him  entail  to  trace, 

In  their  tails  prehensile,  a  relic  stray 
Of  the  prehistoric  human  race. 

If  you  take  him  to  see  a  funny  play, 

He  '11  find  it  a  pleasure  and  tell  you  so, 
Instead  of  remarking  that  actors  to-day 

Are  nothing  to  thirty  years  ago  ! 
His  philosophy  turns  the  Present  to  gold, 

It  brightens  the  Morrow,  and  sweeps  away 
That  herd  who  in  glad  To-day  grow  old, 

Bemoaning  the  husks  of  Yesterday. 

If  this  rare  philosopher  could  but  rule 

The  world,  't  would  be  of  a  different  type  ; 
There  would  be  no  grief,  no  pain,  no  school, 

No  hopes  disappointed,  no  apples  unripe. 
All  sin  and  misery,  shame  and  crime, 

All  envy  and  malice  and  evil  ways, 
Would  be  blotted  out  from  the  page  of  Time, 

And  the  days  would  all  be  circus  days  ! 

When  the  stars  peep  out  in  the  vaulted  skies, 
It  pleases  him  well  to  watch  them  shine ; 

But  no  mathematics  he  ever  applies 

To  the  handiwork  of  their  Maker  divine. 

Whether  the  sun  be  a  million  miles, 
Or  a  hundred  millions,  is  all  as  one  — 


A    NEW  PHILOSOPHER.  83 

Enough  to  dimple  his  face  in  smiles 

That  there  is,  and  will  be  forever,  a  sun  ! 

So,  I  hold  him  to  be  both  wise  and  great, 

This  new  philosopher  whom  I  have  found, 
And  when,  in  conclusion,  here  I  state 

That  just  ten  Summers  have  rolled  around 
His  flaxen  head,  don't  ridicule 

A  sage  whose  years  are  so  easy  to  add  : 
Much  learning  hereafter  may  make  him  a  fool, 

But  to-day  he  is  wise  enough  to  be  glad  ! 


NEW  LAMPS   FOR  THE   OLD. 

THROUGH  the  streets  of  the  ancient  town 
The  magician  goes  wandering  down, 
Repeating  in  accents  bold  — 
While  the  women  assemble  near, 
Half  doubting  the  words  they  hear  — 
New  lamps  !    New  lamps  for  the  old  ! 

Through  the  multitudinous  years 
The  magician  lives  and  appears, 

Still  working  his  evils  untold  ; 
And  ever  his  cry  is  the  same 
As  when  to  Aladdin's  he  came  : 

New  lamps  !    New  lamps  for  the  old  / 

To  the  faithful  who  rested  secure 
In  promise  ample  and  sure, 

And  whose  feet  in  right  paths  were  controlled, 
He  comes  with  the  dogmas  of  doubt, 
Till  the  light  of  their  faith  goes  out  — 

New  lamps  !    New  lamps  for  the  old  ! 


NEW  LAMPS  FOR   THE   OLD.  85 

The  lover  whose  love  was  returned 
In  a  flame  that  so  steadily  burned 

That  its  warmth  was  more  precious  than  gold, 
Finds  the  hope  of  a  life  swept  away 
In  the  changing  caprice  of  a  day  — 

New  lamps  !    New  lamps  for  the  old  ! 

The  maiden  who  laughed  in  her  joy, 
To  find  in  Love's  gold  no  alloy, 

But  a  blessedness  not  to  be  told, 
Is  crushed  by  the  horrible  truth 
That  wealth  buys  power  and  youth  — 

New  lamps  !    New  lamps  for  the  old  ! 

Ah,  little  they  know  or  divine 

How  the  light  that  they  lose  shall  shine, 

Or  what  genie  of  wealth  it  may  hold  ; 
And  they  listen,  in  foolish  surprise, 
To  the  voice  of  the  wizard  who  cries  : 

New  lamps  !    New  lamps  for  the  old ! 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE. 

CROWNING  the  rocks  the  lighthouse  stands, 
Desolate,  grim,  and  alone ; 
It  seems,  from  this  long,  low  stretch  of  sands, 

Like  a  giant  upon  his  throne  — 

A  giant  carved  out  of  stone  : 
And  there  he  stands,  forevermore, 
Hearing  the  ocean's  deafening  roar, 

Old  ocean's  monotone. 
There  he  stands  when  the  fierce  suns  blaze, 
And  there  in  the  cold,  bleak  Winter  days  — 
Forever  there,  a  spectral  form 
Washed  by  the  waves  and  beat  by  the  storm. 

By  night  and  by  day 

The  waters  play 

About  the  feet  of  this  giant  gray ; 
Or  the  storm-king  lashes  them  till  they  pour 

Their  briny  spray 

Against  the  rocks  with  an  angry  roar. 
Tis  then,  when  the  tempest  rages  high, 

That  over  the  waves'  foam-crested  tops 
Glimmers  afar  the  one  red  eye 

Of  this  sullen  old  Cyclops  ! 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE.  87 

Ah,  well  for  those 

Whose  duty  knows 
No  higher  plane  than  thus  to  give 
Their  days  to  this  dull  work  —  to  live 

Contented  on  those  barren  rocks ; 
To  see  the  waves  against  them  hurled  ; 

To  seek  no  wisdom  which  unlocks 
The  mighty  mysteries  of  the  world ; 

To  feel  no  thrill,  no  sudden  shocks, 
At  good  report  or  ill ;  but  day  by  day 
To  tread  the  same  restricted  way  — 

The  way  which  knows  no  turning  — 
To  watch  the  waves  and  heavens  gray, 

And  keep  the  one  lamp  burning  ! 
Not  vain  such  lives  as  theirs,  I  hold  ; 

For  love,  which  has  the  power 
To  turn  a  prison's  bars  to  gold, 

May  gild  the  lighthouse  tower  ! 


THE   OLD   STAGE-HORSE. 

WHAT  is  that  lying  there  out  in  the  street? 
Only  a  stage-horse,  dead  from  the  heat ; 
While  the  crowd  stares,  along  comes  the  dray  — 
Hustle  him  in  and  cart  him  away  ! 

Better  it  is  that  he  should  be  dead, 
Than  living  the  burdensome  life  he  led ; 
Better  go  down  in  the  din  and  the  crash, 
Than  longer  to  suffer  the  sting  of  the  lash. 

Stiff  in  the  joints  and  weak  in  the  knees, 
Jaded,  disabled  and  filled  with  disease, 
Shorn  of  his  strength  and  blind  in  an  eye  — 
What  could  the  old  horse  do  but  die  ? 


Little  there  was  to  sweeten  his  life, 
Doomed  to  the  clattering  tumult  and  strife, 
To  the  deafening  din  and  the  scorching  heat 
Of  the  city's  clamorous,  crowded  street. 


THE  OLD  STAGE-HORSE.  89 

Happier  days  had  the  old  horse  known, 
Days  when  a  kindlier  fortune  had  thrown 
His  lot  in  pleasant  and  peaceful  ways  — 
Alack,  that  he  ever  outlived  those  days  ! 

Then  was  he  petted  and  prized  for  his  speed, 
Given  the  best  of  drink  and  feed, 
Groomed  by  day  and  guarded  by  night, 
And  decked  with  a  harness  polished  and  bright. 

Halcyon  times  were  those  for  him, 
When,  glossy  of  coat  and  neat  of  limb, 
Proud  from  his  hoof  to  his  small  ear's  tip, 
He  felt  his  power  and  spurned  the  whip. 

But  for  the  evil  days  that  came 
He  never  had  known  disgrace  or  shame  ; 
His  life  had  been  all  that  comfort  denotes, 
Passed  in  the  calm  of  an  Eden  of  oats. 

Stripped  of  his  beauty  and  weakened  by  age, 
Thus  at  the  end  was  he  put  to  the  stage ; 
The  servant  alike  of  sinner  and  saint, 
He  bore  his  burden  without  complaint. 

Yet  sometimes,  I  fancy,  there  rose  to  his  eyes 
A  vision  of  pastures  and  country  skies  ; 
The  lumbering  coach  that  rolled  at  his  heels 
Turned  to  a  buggy  with  shining  wheels. 


90  THE  OLD  STAGE-HORSE. 

In  place  of  the  dusty,  noisy  street, 
The  cool  broad  highway  stretched  at  his  feet, 
And  again  at  the  brook  he  stopped  to  drink  — 
Ah,  well,  I  forgot  —  a  horse  cannot  think  ! 

All  he  could  do  from  day  to  day, 
Was  to  plod  along  in  his  patient  way, 
Till  his  very  whinny  had  turned  to  a  sigh, 
And  then,  if  he  could  not  think,  he  could  die  ! 


TIME'S  TOUCH. 

[Read  June  25,  1878,  on  the  tenth  anniversary  of  the  establishment 
of  "  Psi  "  Charge,  in  the  "  Theta  Delta  Chi "  Fraternity,  Hamilton 
College,  Clinton,  N.  Y.] 

HT^EN  years  !     It  hardly  counts  for  much  where  cen- 

-L       turies  rise  and  fade  — 
Ten  little  spears  of  grass  cut  down  by  Time's  unerring 

blade ; 
Ten  grains  of  sand  that  go  to  make  the  shore  of  that 

far  sea, 
Where  freighted  ships  are  sailing  to  the  worlds  that  are 

to  be. 

But  in  our  narrow  lives  't  were  vain  to  turn  with  words 

of  scorning 
On  ten  round  years,  —  and  those  bright   years   that 

measured  life's  fair  morning,  — • 
When  rose  the  great  sun  in  the  east  disclosing  roseate 

views, 
And  everything  was   summer-like,  —  including   heavy 

dews. 

Ten  years  !     Ah  yes,  't  is  long  enough,  anatomists  de 
clare, 
To  change  the  body's  tissues  or  the  color  of  the  hair, 


92  TIME'S  TOUCH. 

And  looking  down  upon  the  seats  where  once  our  fel 
lows  sat, 

'Tis  long  enough,  it  seems,  to  work  some  stranger 
change  than  that. 

We  like  to  picture  Time  as  large  —  his  comprehensive 

plan 

Outweighing  all  the  little  hopes  and  purposes  of  man ; 
But  what  small  work  is  this  to  which  he  's  bending  as 

he  flies  — 
This  scratching  wrinkles  in  the  brows  of  Theta  Delta 

Chis? 

Since  first  those  magic  letters  were  repeated  in  our  ears, 
We  Ve  gained  the  wit  and  wisdom  of  a  half  a  score 

of  years, 
We  Ve  striven  for  promotion,  and  we  Ve  seen  our  plans 

miscarried, 
We  Ve  thought  and  wrought  and  some  were  caught  and 

safely  housed  and  married. 

We  Ve  found  misfortune  frequently  to  be  a  heavy 
hitter, 

And  with  the  sweets  of  life  we  Ve  had  our  portion  of 
the  bitter ; 

We  Ve  learned  from  stern  experience  the  world's  un 
written  ways  — 

And  yet  we  are  not  half  so  wise  as  in  our  Freshman 
days  I 


TIME'S   TOUCH.  93 

Nor  can  we  ever  hope  to  be  as  sagely  wise  as  then, 
When  first  we  came  to  designate  our  vealy  selves  as 

men  ; 
No  task  on  earth,  we  fondly  thought,  too  great  for  us 

to  do, 
No  page  in  life's  unopened  book  we  could  not  "  pony  " 

through. 

And  better  for  the  memory  of  those  undaunted  days 
Than  Fame's  loud-throated  trumpetings,  or  any  worldly 

praise ; 

To  live  within  the  possible,  to  find  the  eyes  to  see 
A  rosy  future' gilding  all  the  sorrow  that  may  be. 

To  have  the  lusty  courage  that  is  natural  to  youth, 

To  delve  with  honest  purpose  for  the  precious  ore  of 

truth  ; 
To  look  into  the  coming  years  and  find  sweet  promise 

there  — • 
Ah,  this  is  good  as  glorious,  and  glorious  as  rare  ! 

The  wrinkles  come,  but  youth  survives  to  him  whose 

heart  is  young ; 
Behind   the   preacher's    grave  discourse,  the  lawyer's 

wagging  tongue, 
The  doctor's  pills,  the  merchant's  books,  your  keenest 

wits  employ, 
And  you  shall  find  the  elements  that  made  the  man  a 

boy. 


94  TIME'S   TOUCH. 

The  Fresh  can  bear  a  hat  and  cane  quite  undisturbed 

to-day ; 
The  Soph,  unawed  by  upper  airs,  can  thread  his  hazy 

way; 
The  Junior,  with  his  budding  hopes,   who  made  his 

mark  at  "  Ex. ;  "  1 

The  Senior  —  all  are  equal  now  with  none  to  vaunt  or 
vex. 

And  somehow,  some  on  whom  we  laid  the  heaviest 
sort  of  odds 

That  they  would  climb  Olympus'  heights  and  wrestle 
with  the  gods, 

Have  failed  to  make  the  promise  good  on  competition's 
floor, 

Where  "ponies  "  break  their  borrowed  legs  and  "  bon 
ing  "  counts  for  more. 


No  other  wisdom  's  half  so  great  as  youth.     It  does 

not  grope, 
But  leaps  to  Honor's  citadel  and  storms  the  gates  of 

Hope; 
The  class-room  bounds  its  cares  and  toils  when  life  and 

health  are  free, 
The  world  is  in  the  campus  then,  and  honor  in  K.  P.2 

1  "Ex."  —Junior  Rhetorical  Exhibition,  now  abolished. 

2  "K.  P.»— A  college  abbreviation  of  Clarke  Prize. 


TIME'S   TOUCH.  95 

But  through  the  various  maze  of  life,  whatever  path  we 

tread, 
Though  thorns  shall  pierce  our  weary  feet,  or  flowers 

their  fragrance  shed, 
Our  thoughts  in  memory's  crucible  to  purest  gold  shall 

melt, 
When  on  the  road  we  clasp  the  hand  of  some  true 

Theta  Delt. 

And  here  to-night  we  laugh  at  Time,  and  for  the  van 
ished  years 

We  have  but  pleasant  memories  and  no  regretful  tears ; 

For  Time  may  whiten  all  our  locks  and  dim  the  bright 
est  eye, 

But  Time  shall  never  quench  our  love  for  Theta  Delta 
Chi. 


TALKING   IT   OVER. 

LUCKY?     I  should  say  so  !     This  is  the  eleventh, 
And  all  the  cards  are  out  for  May  the  twenty- 
seventh. 
Sixteen  days,  and  then  —  ah,  then  —  ah,  then  (don't 

twit  me), 
I  hope  the  tailor  cuts  that  swallow-tail-  to  fit  me  ! 

Love  her  ?    Well,  I  don't,  speaking  quite  sincerely ; 
But,  then,  she  '11  stand  me  in  twenty  thousand  yearly ; 
And  a  fellow  can't,  for  any  scruples  silly, 
Afford  to  let  a  chance  like  that  escape  him,  Billy. 

Doubtless  we  shall  be  moderately  happy  — 
She  's  a  woman  grown,  and  I  'm  not  over  sappy; 
And  we  Ve  both  confessed  to  many  early  passions, 
Which  have  been  outgrown,  along  with  other  fashions. 

Experience,  you  know,  a  woman's  nature  mellows, 
And  she  has  been  engaged  to  half  a  dozen  fellows ; 
So  the  old,  old  story  to  her  was  even  older 
Than  to  most  who  hear  it  with  their  heads  upon  your 
shoulder. 


TALKING  IT  OVER.  97 

Still,  she 's  well  enough  —  that  is,  I  mean,  she  's  charm 
ing, 

And  loves  me,  though  her  symptoms  are  not,  as  yet, 
alarming ; 

And  remembering  her  fortune,  her  bank  account,  and 
carriage, 

I  really  look  with  pleasure  upon  my  coming  marriage. 

But,  speaking  now  of  love  —  perhaps  you  may  remem 
ber 

The  little  girl  I  met  in  the  country  last  September  ? 

Lord  !  what  eyes  she  had  —  I  told  you  something  of 
her, 

But  I  think  I  did  n't  tell  you  that  I  learned,  in  fact,  to 
love  her. 

You  see,  I  spent  a  fortnight  in  the  sleepy,  old,  romantic 
Village  where  she  lives  —  and  that  fortnight  drove  me 

frantic ; 
We   rowed   and   drove   and   fished,  and  roamed  the 

woods  together, 
And  talked  —  oh,  well,  of  science  and  butter  and  the 

weather. 

And  never  once  of  love  ?     No,  never,  on  my  honor  — 
She  may  have  guessed  at  that  from  the  way  I  gazed 

upon  her ; 

So  pure  she  was,  so  sweet,  with  such  a  freshness  to  her, 
Upon  my  word,  old  boy,  I  felt  ashamed  to  woo  her. 
7 


98  TALKING  IT  OVER. 

Ashamed  of  vapid  talk  and  all  the  small  devices 
Which,  in  a  drawing-room,  we  offer  with  the  ices  ; 
Not  one  of  those  soft  speeches  could  I  find  the  tongue 

to  utter, 
And  so  't  was  wise,  perhaps,  to  confine  myself  to  butter. 

Well,  when  I  came  away  I  held  her  hand  a  minute, 
And  tried  to  use  my  voice,  but  the  very  deuce  was  in  it. 
As  dumb  as  any  oyster  I  stood,  and  she  was  dumber, 
Until,  at  last,  I  told  her  I  would  come  again  next  Sum 
mer. 

Now,  what  I  want  to  say,  should  you  chance  to  see  her, 
Billy, 

Just  offer  my  excuses  —  make  'em  sound  or  make  'em 
silly ; 

Tell  her  that  I  wrote  her  —  that  the  letter  was  miscar 
ried — 

That  I  'm  forced  to  go  to  Europe  —  but  don't  tell  her 
that  I  'm  married  ! 

For,  honor  bright,  old  boy,  though  this  is  the  eleventh, 
And  all  the  cards  are  out  for  May  the  twenty-seventh, 
I  half  regret  I  did  n't  confess  I  loved  her  dearly, 
And  marry  her  instead  of  twenty  thousand  yearly  ! 


OLD   SLEDGE. 

YOU  may  eulogize  whist  as  a  game  which  requires 
The  stolid  skill  of  our  English  sires  ; 
You  may  risk  your  luck  on  a  draw  at  poker, 
Or  patronize  euchre  —  but  not  with  the  joker ; 
You  may  find  that  in  cribbage  there  's  something  to  do 
When  you  lay  out  a  sequence,  or  fifteen-two ; 
You  may  build  at  cassino,  or  enter  a  party 
For  a  quiet  bout  of  piquet  or  e"cart£  — 
But  there  is  n't  a  game  in  the  whole  of  the  pack 
That  can  hold  a  candle  to  high-low-jack  ! 

Blest  Puritan  game  !  in  the  far-away  time, 
When  innocent  sport  was  condemned  as  a  crime, 
The  boys  of  New  England  would  hie  them  away 
To  a  friendly  barn  with  its  sheltering  hay, 
On  the  afternoon  of  the  Sabbath  day, 
To  digest  the  sermon  and  blunt  its  edge 
With  thy  multitudinous  charms,  Old  Sledge  ! 
They  shuffled  and  dealt  with  a  cautious  hand, 
For  their  pasteboard  friends  were  contraband, 
But  ever  and  oft,  as  they  made  their  scores, 
They  carelessly  called  the  game  "all  fours." 


100  OLD  SLEDGE. 

And  afar  on  the  California  slope, 

In  the  days  when  the  Argonauts,  flushed  with  hope, 

Were  searching  for  "  pockets  "  and  staking  their  claims, 

They  counted  thee  then  the  prince  of  games. 

By  the  blazing  camp-fire  gathered  round, 

What  solid  comfort  in  thee  they  found  ! 

Those  bearded  men,  who  carried  their  lives 

Clutched  in  their  hands,  as  they  carried  their  knives, 

Dealt  out  the  cards  and  brimmed  their  cup 

Of  earthly  pleasure  with  seven-up  ! 

With  all  thy  changes  of  form  and  name, 

At  heart,  Old  Sledge,  thou  art  still  the  same ; 

Thy  laws  are  the  laws  of  life  in  a  way, 

Where  all  must  shuffle  and  deal  and  play ; 

Where  the  pack  is  cut  by  those  who  would  live, 

And  some  must  beg  and  some  must  give ; 

If  we  hold  the  high  it  is  safe,  we  know, 

But  we  need  to  be  cautious  with  only  the  low ; 

For  a  knave  will  carry  his  point  like  a  brick, 

Where  a  king  would  fail  at  taking  the  trick  ! 


FIFTEEN   YEARS  AGO. 

FIFTEEN  years  ago  a  very 
Pretty  girl  gave  this  to  me  — 
A  rosebud,  which  I  chose  to  bury 

Between  these  pages,  as  you  see. 
And  now,  by  chance,  I  Ve  run  across  it, 

Odorless  and  dry,  you  know  — 
I  wonder  much  what  color  was  it 
Fifteen  years  ago  ? 

Fifteen  years  ago  a  sappy 

Youth,  by  this  same  flower,  was  made 
So  very  —  so  absurdly  happy, 

It  hushed  for  once  his  rodomontade  ; 
And,  gazing  at  the  pretty  donor, 

His  face  took  on  the  rose's  glow  — 
The  boy  was  green,  upon  my  honor, 

Fifteen  years  ago  ! 

I  well  recall  that  night  in  Summer  — 

I  think  'twas  June  —  perhaps  July  ; 
The  rose,  at  least,  was  no  new-comer, 

And  hot  the  day  had  been,  and  dry. 
But  we  two,  sitting  close  together, 

Of  heat  or  dryness  naught  could  know 
Our  love  was  hotter  than  the  weather 

Fifteen  years  ago  ! 


102  FIFTEEN   YEARS  AGO. 

And  who  could  then  have  wished  it  colder, 

When  once,  like  mine,  his  eyes  had  seen 
The  rounded  arm  and  dimpled  shoulder 

Beneath  her  gauzy  grenadine  ? 
My  fancies  to  that  moment  rove  now  — 

I  kissed  her  once  in  passion's  glow ; 
The  boy  was  not  so  green,  by  Jove  !  now, 

Fifteen  years  ago  ! 

And  this  is  all  that 's  left  —  this  musty, 

Scentless  rosebud  in  a  book ; 
She  'd  call  me  now,  no  doubt,  a  crusty 

Old  bachelor  —  and  such  I  look. 
They  say  she  's  happy  in  her  marriage, 

And  with  her  money  makes  a  show  — 
She  did  n't  own  a  Brewster  carriage 

Fifteen  years  ago  ! 

They  say  she  's  happy.     Well,  they  say  it 

Of  me,  likewise,  and  no  one  grieves ; 
Yet  Love  was  mine,  and  I  did  slay  it ! 

Its  ghost  is  in  these  musty  leaves. 
I  close  the  book.     Of  course  I  'm  happy  — 

And  yet,  sometimes,  I  wish  't  were  so 
That  I  might  be  the  youngster  sappy 

Of  fifteen  years  ago  ! 


SKATING. 

DIVINER  than  wine  is  this  rarefied  air, 
Crisp  and  keen  and  withal  stimulating ; 
The  weather  to  laugh,  to  love,  to  drown  care  — 
The  weather  the  gods  make  expressly  for  skating  ! 

They  Ve  given  us  much  to  be  glad  for  —  the  gods  — 
But  nothing  in  sport  so  perfect  as  this  is, 

Of  seasonable  pleasures  the  keenest,  by  odds, 
The  sparkling  champagne  of  Winter's  blisses  ! 

A  sport,  did  I  call  it?    Ah,  yes,  but  much  more  — 

An  art  that  admits  of  elaborating  — 
An  ethical  science,  not  studied  of  yore, 

But  a  science  no  less,  is  our  modern  skating. 

If  the  sound  of  the  jingling  sleighbell  captures 
The  ear  and  the  soul  by  the  fun  it  suggests ; 

If  gushing  young  damsels  go  into  raptures 

At  thought  of  old  Winter's  joy-giving  bequests  ; 

How  far  more  deserving  of  popular  praise 
Is  the  glorious  sport,  the  science  precise, 

The  poetry  of  steel,  the  art  that  can  raise 
Warm-blooded  philosophy  out  of  mere  ice  ! 


104  SKATING. 

And  then  for  the  rare,  the  bracing  tonic 
A  turn  on  the  ice  affords  at  all  times ; 

Infallible  cure  for  those  ills  Byronic, 

Which  lead  to  dyspepsia,  and  often  to  rhymes  ! 

What  poetry  lies  in  a  pair  of  skates  ! 

What  volumes  of  unrecorded  romances  ! 
The  very  decrees  of  the  changeless  Fates 

(Under  conceivable  circumstances) 

Would  need  to  be  altered  to  suit  the  fancy 
Of  some  sweet  wizard,  who  thought  it  nice 

To  show  the  power  of  Love's  necromancy 
While  doing  the  outer  edge  on  ice  ! 

What  melody  is  there  like  to  the  clinking 

Of  polished  steel  on  glassy  ice  ? 
What  pleasure,  when  night's  star-eyes  are  winking, 

To  the  joys  of  a  frozen  paradise  ? 

Gracefully  gliding  hither  and  thither, 
Motion  becomes  a  rhythmic  metre ; 

The  soul  expands,  and  the  thoughts  that  wither 
The  heart  give  place  to  the  truer,  the  sweeter. 

For  a  sense  of  larger  freedom  comes 

With  the  body's  glad  exhilarating, 
And  man  more  readily  solves  life's  sums 

After  an  hour's  vigorous  skating  ! 


o1 


THE   CIRCUS. 

(H,  there  's  many  a  jolly  thing 

That  blossoms  with  the  Spring, 
For  then  it  is  that  Nature  her  miracles  doth  work  us ; 
But  of  all  the  things  that  sprout, 
The  best,  beyond  a  doubt, 

Is   the   canvas-tented,    sawdust-scented,    always   jolly 
circus  ! 

With  a  thrill  of  glad  surprise 

The  youngster  stands  and  eyes 
Each  gorgeous  colored  poster  that  decorates  the  fences, 

And  which,  in  glowing  terms, 

His  own  belief  confirms, 

That  the  coming  show  to  all  who  go  will  dazzle  quite 
their  senses. 

And  when  the  day  arrives, 

And  the  gilded  chariot  drives 
Resplendent  through  the  town,  with  music  playing, 

Pray,  where  's  the  boy  who  'd  not 

Give  all  the  wealth  he  's  got 

To  be  the  clown  who  wins  renown  by  funny  speeches 
saying  ? 


106  THE   CIRCUS. 

And  once  within  the  tent, 

Though  it  takes  his  every  cent, 
Your  ten-year-old  is  happier  than  any  monarch  ruling ; 

While  he  laughs  with  keenest  zest, 

And  declares  each  act  the  best, 

From  the  entree  gay  with  rich  array  to  final  trick-mule's 
fooling. 

The  intrepid  bareback  rider, 
With  the  girl  whose  skirts  don't  hide  her, 
The  leapers  and  the  tumblers,  and  the  horse  to  music 

prancing, 

And  the  brothers  who  with  ease 
Mount  the  treacherous  trapeze, 

And  the  spangle-suited,  nimble-footed  gent  who  keeps 
the  barrel  dancing ; 

The  nerves  that  never  falter, 

The  double-somersaulter, 
Who  clears  a  stud  of  horses  with  safety  and  precision  — 

All  these  their  glory  fling 

Around  the  sawdust  ring, 
And  so  enamour  by  their  glamour  every  boyish  vision. 

To  you  and  me,  perhaps 
(Old,  gray  and  wrinkled  chaps), 

This  glamour,  with  some  other  things,  has  long  ago 
departed ; 


THE   CIRCUS.  I0j 

But  your  trustful  ten-year-old 
Finds  all  the  glitter  gold, 

And  so  did  you  before  you  grew  too  wise  to  be  light- 
hearted. 

So  the  praises  still  I  sing 
Of  the  jolly  sawdust-ring, 
Which  comes  to  us  when  Nature  her  miracles  doth 

work  us  j 

For  the  happiest  of  things 
Which  the  gentle  Spring-time  brings 
Is  the  canvas-tented,  sawdust-scented,  much  frequented 
circus. 


PLAYING   BILLIARDS. 

LAST  night,  Nell  and  I  played  billiards  together ; 
You  play,  I  presume,  but  I  somewhat  doubt 

whether 

You  ever  crossed  cues  with  a  rival  so  fair, 
So  bewitchingly  witching  as  Nellie  Azare. 

She  's  young  and  vivacious,  and  wondrously  witty ; 
Not  quite  eighteen,  but  dangerously  pretty ; 
She  's  as  sprightly  and  saucy  as  Mile.  Aimee, 
And  her  foot  is  as  dainty  —  she  wears  number  three. 

Her  form  is  neither  too  stout  nor  too  slender, 
Her  lips  ruby-red,  and  her  voice  softly  tender ; 
In  short,  she  's  perfection's  model  device, 
A  little  bit  naughty,  but  dreadfully  nice  ! 

I  am,  as  you  know,  fond  of  billiards  —  ay,  quite  so  ; 
But  somehow  or  other,  I  got,  last  night,  so 
Completely  bewildered  —  and  pray  who  would  not  ?  — 
I  could  n't,  in  truth,  make  the  simplest  shot. 


PLAYING  BILLIARDS. 


109 


In  spite  of  myself,  my  thoughts  would  keep  straying 
To  Nell,  instead  of  the  game  we  were  playing ; 
Her  ravishing  beauty  so  puzzled  me  quite 
I  could  n't  have  told  the  red  ball  from  the  white. 

We  had  finished  one  game,  and  were  playing  another  : 
I  was  making  worse  work  than  I  had  of  the  other,  — 
When  Nell  struck  her  ball  a  sharp  little  blow, 
And  stood  watching  its  course,  with  cheeks  all  aglow. 

How  tempting  she  looked  in  her  dress  of  white  muslin  ! 
'T  would  have  set  a  philosopher's  brain  to  puzzlin' 
In  striving  to  grasp  an  object  so  fair, 
As  was  Nellie  last  night,  while  standing  there. 

And  watching  her  thus,  as  she  stood,  with  lips  parted, 

Eagerly  noting  the  balls,  I  was  started 

Suddenly  out  of  my  visions  of  bliss 

By  the  sweet  words  uttered,  Kiss,  do  kiss  / 

Of  course  Nell  addressed  the  balls  on  the  table ; 
But  where  is  the  chap  that  would  ever  be  able 
To  stoically  let  such  a  chance  as  that  pass  ? 
If  there  be  any  such,  I  'm  not  of  the  class  ! 

Whether  or  not  the  balls  came  in  contact, 
I  trow  that  I  couldn't  now  tell  you,  on  fact; 
But  I  have  n't,  I  'm  sure,  the  least  doubt  as  to  this, 
That  Nellie  received  what  she  asked  for  —  a  kiss  ! 


AN   HONEST  CONFESSION. 

WITH  thoughts  of  companionship  only, 
I  sit  in  my  bleak  little  room, 
Dejected,  despondent  and  lonely, 

While  the  twilight  deepens  to  gloom ; 
I  sit  here  and  stare  at  the  ceiling, 

And  muse  and  wonder  and  think 
How  hard  is  the  task  of  living 
By  paper  and  pen  and  ink. 

Ah,  once,  I  remember,  I  fancied 

That  writing  would  win  me  a  name  — 
The  world  at  that  time  was  less  rancid, 

And  I  yearned  for  the  bubble  of  fame ; 
So,  filled  with  a  burning  desire, 

I  sat  down  to  labor  and  think  — 
To  astonish  mankind  by  the  magic 

Of  paper  and  pen  and  ink. 

I  began  on  an  epic,  and  finished 

Some  twenty  odd  lines,  and  no  more ; 

Then  essayed,  with  pluck  undiminished, 
A  drama,  which  died  at  Act  Four ; 


AN  HONEST  CONFESSION.  1 1 1 

Then  I  courted  the  coyish  Erato, 
Nor  permitted  my  spirits  to  sink  — 

I  was  bound  to  get  riches  and  honor 
From  paper  and  pen  and  ink. 

Alas  for  the  dreams  that  I  cherished 

When  first  I  laid  hold  of  a  pen  ! 
Alas  for  the  hopes  that  have  perished, 

And  the  misery  suffered  since  then  ! 
Where  now  is  that  spirit  courageous 

Which  was  never  to  falter  or  shrink? 
Where  —  where  are  the  triumphs  I  dreamed  of 

With  paper  and  pen  and  ink  ? 

Once  it  caused  me  a  thrill  and  a  flutter 

To  see  my  effusions  in  print ; 
Now  I  write  for  my  bread  and  my  butter, 

And  my  heart  is  as  hard  as  a  flint. 
You  may  talk  of  the  mythical  muses, 

But  the  craving  for  meat  and  for  drink 
Is  the  truest  incentive  to  labor 

With  paper  and  pen  and  ink  ! 

I  weave  the  most  thrilling  romances 

Out  of  fabrics  exceedingly  thin  — 
Brave  knights  with  their  armor  and  lances, 

And  maidens  with  lily-white  skin  : 
And  I  murder  those  maidens  so  lovely, 

Then  restore  'em  to  life  in  a  wink, 


112  AN  HONEST  CONFESSION. 

And  marry  'em  off  to  a  villain, 
With  paper  and  pen  and  ink  ! 

I  have  won  neither  wealth  nor  position, 

Nor  the  coveted  prize  of  a  name ; 
I  have  buried  the  dreams  of  ambition, 

And  forgotten  the  phantom  of  fame. 
I  labor  no  longer  on  epics,     . 

Nor  tremble  on  tragedy's  brink  — 
I  am  thankful  to  earn  a  bare  living 

With  paper  and  pen  and  ink. 

So,  with  thoughts  for  companionship  only, 

I  sit  in  my  bleak  little  room, 
Dejected,  despondent  and  lonely, 

While  the  twilight  deepens  with  gloom ; 
I  sit  here  and  stare  at  the  ceiling, 

And  smile  to  myself  as  I  think 
Of  the  castles  in  Spain  I  erected 

On  paper  and  pen  and  ink  ! 


THE   FLIGHT   OF  THE   SWALLOW. 

I  HAD  eaten  my  peaches  and  cream, 
And  ended  my  butterfly  flight ; 
I  was  rudely  awakened  from  Fame's  fair  dream 

To  the  palpable  darkness  of  night. 
I  was  lacking  in  credit  and  gold, 

On  Poverty's  ocean  afloat, 
When,  having  relinquished  the  world,  I  sold 
My  cherished,  my  swallow-tail  coat. 

'T  was  the  last  of  the  treasures  I  owned, 

A  relic  of  days  when  I  thrived 
On  the  honey  which  others  had  gathered,  and  droned 

While  the  bees  of  humanity  hived  ; 
The  last  of  my  treasures  —  of  things 

Which  I  donned  for  the  German  and  club. 
For,  pray,  of  what  use  were  butterfly  wings, 

When  I  found  myself  turned  to  a  grub? 

As  I  clutched  the  begrimed  bank-notes, 

Which  exuded  a  musty  smell, 
I  turned  with  a  sigh  to  the  best  of  my  coats, 

And  bade  it  a  silent  farewell ; 
Farewell  to  the  days  that  are  gone, 

To  the  beauty  that  round  me  did  float, 


II4      THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 

To  the  shapely  white  arm  that  was  lovingly  drawn 
Through  the  sleeve  of  that  swallow-tail  coat. 

Farewell  to  the  nut-brown  curls, 

To  the  blue,  beseeching  eyes ; 
Farewell  to  the  queen  of  peach-bloom  girls 

Who  answered  my  words  with  her  sighs. 
My  heart  she  heavily  smote, 

But  why  should  I  pine  or  cry? 
She  sold  her  soul  as  I  sold  my  coat, 

To  one  who  had  cash  to  buy  ! 

Farewell  to  the  flaming  jets 

In  the  brilliant  and  gay  saloon ; 
Farewell  to  the  odor  of  mignonettes 

In  the  fairer  light  of  the  moon. 
Farewell  to  the  lover's  song, 

Attuned  to  a  bird-like  throat ; 
The  faith  that  promised  to  last  so  long 

Has  not  outworn  this  coat. 

There,  into  the  pile  it  is  cast, 

And  I  seize  on  the  money  instead ; 
I  have  sold  the  coat,  but  its  history  past 

Is  stitched  with  a  golden  thread. 
My  longings  may  all  be  vain, 

On  poverty's  ocean  I  float, 
But  no  one  shall  know  what  castles  in  Spain 

I  sold  with  my  swallow-tail  coat  ! 


ANTHONY'S   PRAYER. 

A   VERSE   FOR   THE    CHRISTMAS   TIME. 

IN  Poverty  Tenement,  on  the  fourth  floor, 
Along  with  the  other  dwellers  —  a  score  — • 
With  his  widowed  mother,  lived  Anthony  More. 

He  was  weak  in  body  and  weaker  in  mind, 
A  poor  little  cripple,  and  more  than  half  blind, 
Yet  seemingly  quite  to  his  fate  resigned. 

His  dozen  years  on  earth  had  been  spent 

In  rooms  where  the  struggle  of  life  was  the  rent  — 

Where  nobody  knew  what  Christmas  meant. 

But  it  happened  that  one  particular  year 

He  had  chanced,  somehow,  the  story  to  hear 

Of  the  birth  of  the  Child  whom  the  world  holds  dear. 

And  likewise  he  'd  heard  of  the  jolly  old  saint  — 
How  he  came  down  the  chimney,  all  rosy  and  quaint, 
And  filled  all  the  stockings,  with  never  complaint. , 


Il6  ANTHONY'S  PRAYER. 

And,  believing  it  all,  poor  Anthony  More, 

On  the  night  before  Christmas,  knelt  down  on  the  floor 

And  prayed  —  which  he  never  had  done  before. 

He  asked  the  good  saint  for  a  pair  of  shoes, 
For  an  overcoat,  such  as  his  fancy  would  choose, 
And  a  jack-knife  —  two-bladed  —  and  fashioned  to  use. 

Now,  whether  or  not  St.  Nicholas  heard 
The  prayer  of  the  boy  must  be  inferred, 
But  this  is  the  simple  fact  that  occurred  : 

Gambler  Jack,  who  lived  on  the  floor, 

As  he  passed  that  night  through  the  hall  to  the  door, 

Stopped  to  listen  to  Anthony  More ; 

And  somehow  the  words  of  the  boy  took  him  back 
To  the  days  when  he  —  yes,  Gambler  Jack  — 
Trusted  in  Santa  Claus  and  his  pack  ! 

And  he  thought  how  the  stocking  he  used  to  hang 
By  the  old  chimney-place  where  the  cricket  sang  — 
And  lo,  through  the  years  the  church-bells  rang, 

Rang  as  they  used  to  ring  of  old, 
When  first  the  wonderful  story  was  told 
By  a  mother's  lips,  now  long  grown  cold. 


ANTHONY'S  PRAYER.  117 

Then  forth  from  Poverty  Tenement, 
With  his  mind  on  a  single  purpose  bent, 
Gambler  Jack  in  the  bleak  night  went. 

Early  next  morning,  when  Anthony  More 
Awoke,  he  saw  by  his  cot  on  the  floor 
Such  a  sight  as  he  never  had  seen  before. 

For  there  was  the  overcoat,  warm  and  well-made, 
And  the  shoes,  and  the  knife  with  its  second  blade  — 
All  the  good  things  for  which  he  had  prayed  ! 

And  Anthony?    Well,  I  can  only  say 
There  never  was  joy  on  a  Christmas-day 
Like  his,  be  the  subject  whatever  it  may  ! 

He  even  insisted  that  Gambler  Jack  — 

Who,  alone  of  the  Tenement,  somehow,  held  back  — 

Should  inspect  the  treasures  from  Santa  Glaus'  pack. 

And  looking  on,  in  his  quiet  way, 

Gambler  Jack  was  heard  to  say  : 

"  So  all  these  come  to  yer  'cause  yer  pray  ? 

"  Well,  Tony,  my  boy,  the  racket  is  plain  — 

If  I  were  you,  I  'd  work  it  again, 

And  I  '11  lay  you  odds  that  it  won't  prove  vain  !  " 


GROWING  OLD. 

A 


T  six  —  I  well  remember  when  — 
I  fancied  all  folks  old  at  ten. 


But  when  I  'd  turned  my  first  decade, 
Fifteen  appeared  more  truly  staid. 

But  when  the  fifteenth  round  I  'd  run, 
I  thought  none  old  till  twenty-one. 

Then  oddly,  when  I  'd  reached  that  age, 
I  held  that  thirty  made  folks  sage. 

But  when  my  thirtieth  year  was  told, 
I  said  :  "  At  twoscore  men  grow  old  !  " 

Yet  twoscore  came  and  found  me  thrifty, 
And  so  I  drew  the  line  at  fifty. 

But  when  I  reached  that  age,  I  swore 
None  could  be  old  until  threescore  ! 

And  here  I  am  at  sixty  now, 
As  young  as  when  at  six,  I  trow  J 


GROWING  OLD.  1 19 

'T  is  true,  my  hair  is  somewhat  gray, 
And  that  I  use  a  cane,  to-day ; 

'T  is  true,  these  rogues  about  my  knee 
Say  "  Grandpa  !  "  when  they  speak  to  me ; 

But,  bless  your  soul,  I  'm  young  as  when 
I  thought  all  people  old  at  ten  ! 

Perhaps  a  little  wiser  grown  — 
Perhaps  some  old  illusions  flown ; 

But  wond'ring  still,  while  years  have  rolled, 
When  is  it  that  a  man  grows  old  ? 


AFTER  THE   HOLIDAYS. 

THE  gay  Christmas  time  it  is  ended, 
The  Holiday  course  has  been  run, 
And,  while  no  offence  is  intended 

To  any  particular  one, 
I  wish  to  make  one  observation 

And  then,  like  the  season,  I  'm  done. 

To  the  ancient  and  honorable  custom 
Of  giving  gifts  once  in  the  year  — 

Provided,  of  course,  it  don't  bust  'em  — 
All  people  should  strive  to  adhere ; 

And  if  they  can  give  but  a  trifle, 

Give  that  with  a  slice  of  good  cheer  ! 


Yet,  while  we  would  show  our  expression 
Of  love  or  esteem  for  a  friend, 

A  proper  amount  of  discretion 
In  choosing  the  token  might  tend 

To  add  to  the  pleasure  of  getting 
The  little  or  much  we  expend. 


AFTER   THE  HOLIDAYS.  121 

It  chanced  this  particular  season 
I  needed  some  slippers  right  bad, 

And  hinted  the  same  for  that  reason 
On  every  occasion  I  had  ; 

And  now  I  am  of  the  conviction 
I  must  at  the  time  have  been  mad  ! 


First,  Nellie,  my  cousin,  inquired 

What  number  my  boot  was  ;  and  when 

I  told  her  I  thought  I  aspired 
To  altitudes  close  upon  ten, 

She  looked  sympathizingly  at  me 
And  said  ;  "  Is  it  possible,  Ben?  " 

And  the  very  next  day  Arabella 
Propounded  the  query  likewise  — 

And  Flora,  and  Dora,  and  Ella 

All  wanted  to  find  out  my  "  size  ;  " 

And  the  evening  I  called  on  Alida 
She  measured  my  foot  with  her  eyes  ! 

Well,  Christmas  Day  dawned,  and  the  dawning 
Was  filled  with  bright  visions,  you  know  ; 

And  I  opened  my  eyes  after  yawning, 
And  glanced  at  the  carpet  below  — 

And  six  pairs  of  slippers  were  lying 
Solemnly  there  in  a  row  ! 


122  AFTER   THE  HOLIDAYS. 

Six  pairs  of  slippers  !     Great  heavens  ! 

Wrought  with  a  skill  superfine  — 
Ranging  from  eights  to  elevens  — 

Rich  and  unique  in  design ; 
And  a  dozen  they  made  altogether, 

And  all  of  the  dozen  were  mine  ! 

I  tried  to  look  pleased  and  contented  — 
For  that  was  the  best  I  could  do  ; 

I  took  'em  all  up  and  commented 
On  the  beauties  presented  to  view, 

And  I  said  they  were  "  Just  what  I  wanted  !  " 
And  "  Twelve  is  better  than  two  !  " 

But  I  locked  three  pairs  in  my  closet, 
And  one  I  have  lent  to  St.  Clair, 

And  one  —  I  wonder  whose  was  it  ?  — 
I  gave  to  the  Charity  Fair  ! 

And  the  last  —  well,  those  are  elevens, 
And  those  are  the  ones  I  shall  wear ! 

And  while  I  'm  extending  my  "  flippers  " 

In  gratitude  deep  and  sincere, 
I  wish  to  remark  that  twelve  slippers 

Are  rather  too  many  to  steer ; 
And  I  take  this  occasion  for  stating 

That  I  shan't  expect  any  next  year. 


TO   LADY   CLARICE. 

YOU  have  asked  me,  Lady  Clarice,  my  lady  none 
so  fair, 
If  I  would  send  a  rosebud  to  twine  amid  your  hair. 


But  oh  !  my  Lady  Clarice,  I  think  you  will  agree, 
That  never  favor  puzzled  man  as  this  has  puzzled  me. 

For  I  cannot,  Lady  Clarice,  I  cannot  send  to  you, 
The  rose  that  opes  in  springtime  —  the  rose  of  crim 
son  hue  — 

For  when  the  red  rose  saw  thee  in  all  thy  careless  grace, 
'T  would  pale  before  the  richer  glow  that  mantles  thy 
fair  face. 

Nor  yet,  my  Lady  Clarice,  I  cannot  send  to  you 
The  rose  that  blows  in  autumn  — the  rose  of  snow- 
white  hue  — 


124  TO  LADY  CLARICE. 

For  when  the  white  rose  saw  thee,  ah  !  then  it  would, 

I  trow, 
Blush  scarlet  at  the  purer  white  upon  my  lady's  brow. 

And  so,  my  Lady  Clarice,  you  see  I  'm  puzzled  quite, 
I  cannot  send  the  crimson  rose  —  I  cannot  send  the 
white  — 

And  either  you,  my  lady,  must  grow,  I  ween,  more 

plain, 
Or  otherwise  Dame  Nature  make  the  roses  o'er  again. 


MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO. 

YOU  may  reason  it  out  on  paper, 
In  a  logical  sort  of  a  way, 
With  a  good  many  "  thens  "  and  "  therefores  " 

That  Winter  is  fairer  than  May. 
But  few  will  ever  believe  it, 

Although  you  claim  that  't  is  ; 
Opinions  are  stronger  than  logic, 
O  Marcus  Tullius  Cis  ! 

You  may  deck  out  a  first-term  Freshman, 

Who  is  seeking  for  classical  lore, 
With  a  cane  and  well-brushed  beaver 

And  call  him  a  Sophomore, 
Yet  something  will  still  be  wanting, 

Which  everybody  will  miss  ; 
In  spite  of  his  hat  he  's  a  Freshman, 

O  Marcus  Tullius  Cis  ! 

And  so  in  the  choicest  of  rhetoric, 

That  sounds  precisely  like  truth, 
You  may  tell  us,  over  and  over, 

That  age  is  better  than  youth ; 


126  MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO. 

You  may  head  the  four  objections 
With  a  "so,"  a  "  thus,"  and  a  "this," 

But  no  one  will  ever  believe  'em, 
O  Marcus  Tullius  Cis  ! 

You  may  tell  us  that  age  cares  nothing 

For  the  pleasures  of  feasting  and  wine, 
And  hence  has  a  good  digestion, 

Which  may  all  be  very  fine  ; 
But  give  us  the  sherry  and  oysters, 

Though  it  be  a  little  amiss, 
And  we  '11  run  our  chance  on  dyspepsia, 

O  Marcus  Tullius  Cis  ! 

You  may  put  in  the  mouth  of  Cato 

Fine  sayings,  exceedingly  wise, 
How  pleasure  is  hostile  to  reason 

And  blinds  the  spirit's  eyes. 
You  may  tell  us  very  gravely 

Of  the  pleasure  that  lies  in  a  kiss, 
But  you  did  n't  use  to  think  so, 

O  Marcus  Tullius  Cis  ! 

You  may  harp  o'er  the  speech  of  Archytas, 

Who  likens  pleasure  to  pest, 
And  calls  it  the  curse  of  our  nature, 

Pshaw  !  Archy,  give  us  a  rest. 
You  may  make  us  think  it  is  logic, 

Yet  I  'm  fully  persuaded  of  this, 


MARCUS  TULLIUS  CICERO.  127 

You  'd  rather  take  pleasure  than  small-pox, 
O  Marcus  Tullius  Cis  ! 

You  never  heard  John  Pierpont, 

In  golden  measures  sing, 
"  That  to  laugh  as  a  boy  were  better 

Than  to  reign  a  gray-haired  king  !  " 
And  yet  the  whole  of  your  essay 

Has  n't  the  truth  of  this  ; 
A  pity  you  could  n't  have  known  it, 

O  Marcus  Tullius  Cis  ! 

Gray  hairs,  no  doubt,  bring  wisdom, 

The  question  we  won't  dispute  ; 
But  who,  for  the  blossom  of  May-time, 

Would  take  the  ripened  fruit  ? 
'T  is  hope  gives  life  its  beauty ; 

Though  the  day  be  perfect  bliss, 
The  morrow  is  always  fairer, 

O  Marcus  Tullius  Cis  ! 

And  youth  is  the  time  for  dreaming : 

In  its  golden,  halcyon  days 
We  weave  the  brightest  colors 

In  the  future's  mystical  maze. 
'T  is  then  we  aim  the  highest, 

And  whether  we  hit  or  miss, 
There  's  pleasure  in  the  aiming, 

O  Marcus  Tullius  Cis  ! 


MARCH. 

MONTH  whom  nobody  praises, 
Boisterous,  blustering,  blue,  March, 
Here  's  a  poor  rhymster  who  raises 

His  voice  in  honor  of  you,  March ; 
What  if  no  buttercups,  daisies 

Nor  mignonette  ever  yet  grew,  March, 
Under  thy  skies  of  leaden, 

Of  deaden  and  desolate  hue,  March  ? 
Facing  thy  blasts  is  sport  while  it  lasts 

To  those  who  're  brave  and  true,  March. 
Volumes  of  verse  have  been  written 

On  May  —  presumably  arch  — 
But  never  a  poet  was  smitten 

By  thine  Amazon  beauties,  O  March  ! 
And  yet,  though  thy  face  is  frost-bitten, 

And  you  sometimes  have  taken  the  starch 

Entirely  out  of  me,  March, 
I  never  will  give  you  the  mitten, 

For  spite  of  your  name  and  leonine  fame 
You  are  better  than  any  mere  kitten  ! 


MARCH.  129 

Not  weavers  of  verses  Byronic, 

Who  scoff  at  the  grandeur  of  toil, 
Can  take  thy  sharp  air  as  a  tonic  — 

Their  hope  is  in  cod-liver  oil ; 
Not  girls,  whose  faces  are  mealy, 

Whose  waists  are  wasted  in  stays, 

Find  aught  in  thy  presence  to  praise  ; 
But  the  maidens  who  follow  out  freely 

Great  Nature's  infallible  ways  — 
Ah,  them  thy  chilling  breath  braces, 

And  a  walk  on  thy  blustering  days 
Adds  freshness  to  all  their  fair  graces, 
Brings  rich  color  into  their  faces, 
Brightens  their  eyes  and  sets  their  blood  flowing 
Like  wine  through  their  veins  while   high  winds   are 

blowing. 
Month  whom  nobody  praises, 

This  song  is  written  for  you,  March. 
Enough  of  sunshine  and  daisies  — 

You  nourish  the  strong  and  the  true,  March. 
Let  the  weak  singers  then  sigh  on, 

Their  sonnets  on  May  are  a  sham,  March ; 
What  is  the  roar  of  a  lion, 

If  it  ends  in  the  bleat  of  a  lamb,  March  ! 


THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH. 

VERY  early  in  the  morning 
Sounds  the  first  sharp  note  of  warning, 
Sounds  the  small  boy's  horn,  whose  horning 

Gains  him  nothing  but  berating ; 
And  from  that  untimely  waking 
Till  the  hour  when  heads  go  aching 
There  is  really  no  mistaking 
That  mankind  is  celebrating. 

Everywhere  a  smell  of  powder, 
Down  the  Bay  clubs  eating  chowder, 
Pistols  small  and  cannon  louder 

Through  the  air  reverberating ; 
Freedom's  flag  on  house-tops  flying, 
Freedom's  glorious  sons  defying 
Frequent  cocktails,  thus  supplying 

Ardor  for  their  celebrating. 

Country-people  in  the  city, 
Town-folk  gone  on  some  committee 
To  the  country.     Wise  and  witty 
Orators  elaborating 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH.  131 

Speeches  fiercely  patriotic, 
Hurling  threats  at  thrones  despotic, 
Furnishing  a  sweet  narcotic 
To  their  hearers,  celebrating. 

Picnics,  dances,  cheap  excursions, 
Claret-punches,  sea  immersions, 
Extra  matine'e  diversions, 

Quite  beyond  enumerating ; 
Sack  and  tub  and  fat-men's  races, 
Yachting,  trotting,  running  bases, 
Shooting,  tooting,  mopping  faces  — 

That 's  the  way  of  celebrating. 

Day  of  days  for  wire-walkers, 
Punch  and  Judy,  sideshow- talkers, 
Lemonade  and  ice-cream  hawkers  — 

All  will  find  a  harvest  waiting. 
Forth  will  go  the  picarooners, 
Up  will  go  the  brave  ballooners, 
Down  will  go  the  beer  in  schooners, 

All  by  way  of  celebrating. 

Brightest  day  (when  't  is  n't  Sunday) 
To  the  youngster  who,  for  one  day, 
Finds  his  long-looked-forth-to  fun  pay 
For  the  months  of  anxious  waiting. 
What  with  pin-wheels,  rockets,  stingers, 
He  shall  find  when  twilight  lingers 


1 32  THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH. 

There  are  left  him  but  nine  fingers, 
What  is  that  to  celebrating  ? 

In  your  days  of  catechism 

Ere  doubt  came,  or  rheumatism, 

High  above  all  criticism 

Seemed  this  day's  anticipating ; 
So,  when  now  the  din  grows  louder, 
Think  if  ever  you  Ve  been  prouder 
Or  as  happy  as  when  powder 

Burned  your  fingers  celebrating  ! 


MY   FIRST  VALENTINE. 

IS  it  not  a  little  funny 
That  through  all  the  years  I  Ve  been 
Getting  fat  and  getting  money, 

Getting  wise  and  learning  men  — 
That  through  all  these  years,  devoted 

To  the  things  for  which  we  pine, 
I  have  never  once  forgotten 
My  first  sweet  Valentine  ? 

She  was  but  a  little  maiden, 

With  the  eyes  of  a  gazelle, 
And  a  face  the  dimples  played  in, 

And  a  laugh  that  threw  its  spell 
Over  me  and  all  who  heard  it ; 

She  was  seven,  I  was  nine, 
And  we  made  mud-pies  together  — 

I  and  my  first  Valentine. 

Ah,  with  what  refreshing  candor 

Did  we  talk  about  our  love, 
Rear  our  castles,  vaster,  grander, 

Than  the  pine-capped  hills  above  ! 


134  MY  FIRST   VALENTINE. 

How  we  peered  into  the  future, 
Helped  by  many  a  mystic  sign, 

Trusting  to  the  seeds  of  apples,  — 
I  and  my  first  Valentine. 

When  the  month  of  February 

Brought  the  day  for  which  I  prayed, 
Secretly  I  sent  a  very 

Loving  token  to  the  maid  : 
Two  blue  hearts  pierced  by  an  arrow  — 

That  was  part  of  the  design  — 
With  a  yellow  Cupid  shooting 

Straight  at  my  first  Valentine. 

Ah,  what  wings  of  love  I  lent  it, 

That  first  mission  she  received ; 
Then  denied  that  I  had  sent  it, 

Till  she  told  me  she  believed 
It  had  come  from  Tommy  Watkins  — 

Strongest  rival  then  of  mine  — 
Whereupon  I,  blushing,  told  her 

I  had  sent  the  Valentine. 

Sweet  confession  !     Was  it  naughty 
In  the  little  maid  to  know?  — 

Bless  my  stars,  and  that  was  forty, 
More  than  forty  years  ago  ! 

Is  she  dead  or  is  she  living, 
Does  she  ever  sit  and  pine 


MY  FIRST   VALENTINE.  135 

For  the  blue-eyed  happy  youngster 
Who  was  her  first  Valentine  ? 

Here  am  I,  gray-haired  and  portly, 

With  a  wife  a  trifle  stout ; 
With  an  air  I  think  that 's  courtly, 

And  a  fortune,  and  the  gout  — 
Here  am  I,  an  honored  father, 

Sentimentalizing  fine 
Over  tissue-paper  Cupids 

Sent  to  my  first  Valentine  ! 

Gracious,  if  the  world  should  know  it ! 

Yet  the  memory  of  those  days 
Stirs  within  me  what  a  poet 

Might  embody  in  his  lays  — 
Comes  the  fragrance  of  the  meadows, 

Comes  the  blood  that  thrills  like  wine, 
Comes  the  wonderland  of  childhood 

Back  with  my  first  Valentine  ! 

Yes,  it  is  a  little  funny, 

That  through  all  I  have  contrived, 
Somehow,  to  preserve  the  honey 

Which  young  love  for  me  once  hived ; 
And  I  find  its  flavor  pleasant, 

As  I  sit  and  sip  my  wine, 
Dreaming  still  of  paper  Cupids 

And  of  my  first  Valentine. 


HIS   IDEA   OF   EDEN. 

ONTENTED  ?    Of  course  I  'm  contented 

Did  ever  your  eyes  behold 
Such  comfort  as  here  is  presented 
To  a  bachelor  crusty  and  old  ? 

For  all  the  possessions  of  Adam, 

Under  his  fig-tree  and  vine, 
I  would  n't  exchange,  if  I  had  'em, 

These  comfortable  quarters  of  mine  ! 

Here  's  Eden  itself  in  a  parlor  — 

The  Eden  that  meets  my  ideas, 
Void  of  the  beasts  that  would  snarl,  or 

The  bugs  that  would  crawl  in  your  ears. 

There  's  no  prohibition  in  choosing 

The  fruit  your  fancies  prefer, 
No  wily  serpent  diffusing 

False  doctrines,  creating  a  stir. 


HIS  IDEA    OF  EDEN.  137 

Pray,  what  were  the  pleasure  of  plucking 

An  apple  before  it  is  ripe 
Compared  to  the  solace  of  sucking 

This  old  and  odorous  pipe  ? 

Or  what  were  the  taste  of  pomegranate 

By  the  side  of  coffee  and  cake  ? 
Or  a  fig  —  yes,  from  Eden  —  now  can  it 

Compare  with  a  tenderloin  steak? 

To  sleep  in  a  bower  might  answer 

For  Adam,  who  relished  such  things  — 

He  lived  in  the  tropic  of  Cancer  — 
But  give  me  a  mattress,  with  springs  ! 

And  evenings  in  Eden  —  how  stupid, 

With  nowhere  to  go  but  to  bed ; 
I  would  rather  surrender  to  Cupid 

Than  lead  such  a  life  as  he  led  ! 

No  races,  no  clubs,  no  regattas, 
No  politics,  theatres,  nor  squibs  — 

Could  a  world  devoid  of  these  matters 
Be  Paradise  unto  his  nibs  ? 

Give  me  just  what  I  have  —  this  bay-window, 

These  quarters  exquisitely  nice, 
My  books,  and  my  pipe,  and,  sin  though 

I  may,  it  is  still  Paradise  ! 


1 38  HIS  IDEA    OF  EDEN. 

But  in  one  thing  my  garden  is  lacking  — 
What  is  that  you  would  have  me  believe  ? 

Its  thistles  and  roses  ransacking, 
My  Eden  is  minus  an  Eve. 

Well,  now,  I  declare,  this  is  taunting  — 
You  crusty,  you  chronic  old  snarler ; 

The  very  one  thing  that  is  wanting 
Makes  Paradise  out  of  my  parlor  ! 


UNRHYMED   SORROW. 

IN  greener  years,  with  ready  skill, 
I  sang  of  death  and  age  and  sorrow, 
And  wept  (in  anapaests)  at  will, 

Or  sighed  (in  iambs)  for  the  morrow. 

How  easy  then  to  mourn  in  rhyme  — 
To  sing  of  youth's  departed  pleasures  ; 

To  hurl  anathemas  at  time, 

In  heavy,  grave,  dactyllic  measures. 

How  easy  when  the  world  was  fair, 
And  dinners  readily  digested, 

To  strike  the  lyre  of  despair, 
And  talk  of  trials  never  tested. 

Because  fair  Marion  or  Maud, 

Or  some  one  whom  I  don't  remember, 
Turned  out  to  be  a  precious  fraud, 

I  likened  life  to  bleak  December. 

And  as  for  womankind,  I  swore 

I  'd  have  no  further  dealings  with  'em  ; 

I  'd  found  them  faithless  as  of  yore  — 
All  that  I  put  in  flowing  rhythm. 


140  UNRHYMED  SORROW. 

I  gnawed  on  mischiefs  bone  with  zest, 
On  death  philosophized  profoundly, 

And  wrote  of  nights  devoid  of  rest  — 

Then  went  to  bed  and  slept  quite  soundly. 

It  pleased  me  then,  in  rhythmic  feet, 
To  harp  on  happiness  departed, 

The  while  I  found  the  present  sweet, 
And  grief  a  sore  which  rarely  smarted. 

Alas,  that  in  those  lusty  days, 

When  I  was  vigorous  and  lacked  ills, 

I  thus  could  every  sorrow  phrase, 
And  suffer  so  in  measured  dactyls  ! 

But  now,  when  trials  real  have  come, 
The  skill  of  youth  I  may  not  borrow  ; 

And  lo  !  the  lips  that  sang  are  dumb  — 
They  cannot  find  a  speech  for  sorrow  ! 

Now,  when  the  sterner  touch  of  time 
Has  rounded  out  my  life  completer, 

I  cannot  seek  relief  in  rhyme, 
Nor  measure  grief  by  any  metre  ! 


THE   CITY  ROOSTER. 

T  IN  FORTUNATE  rooster !   who  more   deserving 
l^J      of  pity 

Than  you  ?     Deserted  and  lonely, 
You  strut  over  cobblestones  here  in  the  slums  of  the 

city, 
With  one  aged  hen,  and  one  only. 

The  glory,  the  strength,  the  pride  of  your  race  have 

departed, 

Your  nature  itself  is  erratic ; 
You  're  weak  in  the  legs,  and  show,  by  your  tail,  you  're 

faint-hearted, 
While  even  your  crow  is  asthmatic. 

You  never  have  known  the  freedom  of  rural  existence, 

The  quiet  of  country  places  — 
Or,  if  you  have,  they  are  lost  in  memory's  distance, 

Along  with  your  chickenhood's  graces. 

The  bustle,  the  roar,  the  city's  monotonous  thunder  — 
To  you,  these  have  grown  an  old  story ; 

A  roost  on  an  ashbox  and  search  in  the  gutter  for  plun 
der — 
That  measures  your  conquest  and  glory. 


1 42  THE   CITY  ROOSTER. 

Have  you  no  courage  to  grapple  with  Fate,  the  stern 
vixen, 

To  crow  at  her  till  you  Ve  induced  her 
To  give  you  the  chance  more  civilized  circles  to  mix  in, 

And  be  a  respectable  rooster  ? 

At  times  do  you  feel  no  regrets,  as  leaden  as  bullets, 

And  rises  there  never  a  vision 

Of  corn-cribs,  of  haylofts,  of  hens  and  attractive  young 
pullets, 

Of  polygamous  barnyards  Elysian  ? 

'T  is  true  you  're  deserving  of  pity,  and  pity  of  pities 
That  here,  in  the  gutters,  thou  prowlest ; 

For  surely  you  Ve  learned  the  civilization  of  cities 
To  fowls  is  barbarity  foulest. 

And  well  for  those  happier  birds,  that  gobble  and  frolic 
Where  mud  and  misfortune  come  never, 

Whose  cornful  and  burdenless  lives  are  all  poetry  bu 
colic, 
Till  they  merge  into  poultry  forever  ! 

Unfortunate  rooster  !     Crestfallen,  alone,  melancholy, 

I  fancy  this  truth  you  would  utter : 
No  doubt  to  be  cock  of  the  walk  is  all  very  jolly, 

But  not  to  be  cock  of  the  gutter ! 


MY   PIPE. 

HERE  'S  a  song  for  a  friend  who  is  steadfast  and 
trusty, 

A  friend  of  the  years  that  are  mellow  and  ripe, 
Whose  soul  is  an  ember,  whose  virtues  are  lusty  — 
My  blackened  and  odorous  brierwood-pipe. 

I  will  fill  up  the  bowl  with  this  genuine  Durham, 
And  dream  as  I  smoke  and  smoke  as  I  dream. 

Leaving  cigars  to  those  who  prefer  'em, 
I  '11  fashion  a  rhyme  for  a  worthier  theme. 

In  earlier  years  I  turned  my  affection 

To  La  Espanolas  and  strong  Henry  Clays ; 

But  now,  in  the  age  of  riper  reflection, 
I  turn  to  my  pipe  and  sing  of  its  praise. 

Short  is  its  stem  and  blackened  its  face  is, 

Crusted  by  time  its  curious  bowl ; 
And  yet,  though  lacking  exterior  graces, 

Warm  is  its  heart  and  glowing  its  soul ! 


I44  PIPE. 


I  cherish  the  wood  that  furnished  it  higher 

Than  Lebanon  cedar  or  polished  oak, 
For  out  of  the  hardy  and  tough-fibered  brier 

Was  carved  the  pipe  which  I  dreamily  smoke. 

What  recks  it  if  fortune  proves  shallow  and  fickle? 

What  matters  it  now  if  love  's  at  an  end  ? 
The  harvester  Time,  with  his  keen-whetted  sickle, 

Has  spared  me  at  least  this  faithfulest  friend. 

The  hopes  that  once  burned  in  my  breast  are  now  ashes, 
As  blackened  and  charred  as  these  in  the  bowl ; 

And  arid  as  gourds  or  the  dry  calabashes 

Are  the  beds  of  the  streams  that  nourished  my  soul. 

Where  once  I  trod  in  the  paths  flower-laden, 
Now  thorns,  deep-piercing,  prick  my  feet ; 

And  ever  there  rises  the  face  of  the  maiden 
Whose  mem'ry  is  gall  as  her  love  was  sweet. 

Of  all  that  is  best  the  years  have  bereft  me  — 
Ambition  is  dead,  and  friendship  is  cold ; 

The  blossoms  of  May  have  wilted  and  left  me 
No  fruit  for  the  Autumn,  no  apples  of  gold. 

Yet  never  my  lips  shall  fall  to  complaining, 
Though  time  be  heavy  and  sorrow  be  ripe ; 

For  still  with  my  trials  I  fancy  I  'm  gaining 
A  closer  communion  with  you,  my  good  pipe. 


MY  PIPE.  145 

And  watching  the  smoke  as  it  rises  before  me, 
Forgetful  I  grow  of  life's  turbulent  stream ; 

While  a  feeling  of  rest  delicious  steals  o'er  me, 
And  earth  seems  fair  as  the  realm  of  a  dream. 

Then  here  's  to  my  pipe  with  its  soul  in  an  ember  ! 

Rich  blessings  upon  its  black  bowl  I  '11  invoke  ; 
Nor  ever  repine  when  I  chance  to  remember 

That  all  of  my  dreams  have  ended  in  smoke  ! 


THE   COUNTY   FAIR. 


D 


ever  you  go, 
I  would  like  to  know, 
To  a  genuine  country,  county  fair  ? 

If  not,  though  blase",  there  awaits  you  one  day 
Of  enjoyment  as  keen,  of  pleasure  as  rare, 
As  ever  you  Ve  found  in  this  world  anywhere, 

Though  in  Paris  you  Ve  dined, 
And  in  Burgundy  wined, 
Been  surfeited  quite  by  sensual  blisses ; 

Made  a  cruise  in  a  yacht,  seen  —  the  Lord  knows 

what, 

And  drunk  of  the  honey  of  rose-lipped  kisses 
(Bestowed  by  some  fair  less  rural  than  this  is). 

You  Ve  lost,  I  repeat, 

Such  a  wholesome  treat, 
If  a  country  fair  you  never  attended, 

That  as  soon  as  you  can,  pray,  follow  my  plan, 
And  go  —  for  you  '11  own  that  the  time  thus  expended 
Affords  both  amusement  and  novelty  blended. 


THE   COUNTY  FAIR.  147 

And  what  is  there  there 

At  the  county  fair? 
Ah,  easier  asked  than  answered,  that  question  : 

There  are  sheep  with  fine  wool,  and  sharpers  to  pull 
The  same  over  eyes  which  in  wonderment  rest  on 
The  over-fat  pigs  that  suggest  indigestion. 


There  are  cows  with  short  horns, 
And  the  fellow  who  scorns 
To  take  his  horn  short,  while  of  long  ones  no  lack  is ; 

There  are  pumpkins  of  sizes  to  rake  in  the  prizes, 
And  also  that  species  which  bets  where  the  jack  is  — 
The  jackass  thus  proving  how  cunning  his  knack  is. 


Pears,  apples  and  grapes, 
All  species  and  shapes 
Of  the  products  of  field,  of  garden,  of  dairy  ; 

Cream,  butter  and  milk,  and  the  bedquiit  of  silk, 
Made  of  nine  hundred  bits  by  some  rural  fairy, 
With  No.  10  socks  knit  by  ten-year-old  Mary  ! 


The  sideshow  —  the  races  — 
(Where  the  trotter  who  places 
A  mile  at  his  heels  in  2:50  's  the  winner)  ; 

The  eating-booth  where  one  oyster 's  your  share 
In  a  plate  of  soup  just  a  trifle  thinner 
Than  the  skeleton  seen  in  the  show  before  dinner  ! 


148  THE   COUNTY  FAIR. 

Punch  and  Judy,  of  course, 
And  the  chap  who  grows  hoarse 
In  offering  solid  gold  rings  for  a  shilling ; 

The  man  who  cures  corns,  and  the  fakir  who  warns 
You  "There  's  only  three  left,  and  who  's  the  next 

willing 
To  pass  in  his  tin  for  this  box  which  I  'm  filling?  " 

But  go  to  the  fair, 

If  you  'd  know  what  is  there  — 

Go,  and  be  served  with  a  fare  many  sided ; 
And  if  it  should  take  some  courage  to  make 

The  journey  alone  through  the  country,  unguided, 

Be  brave,  and  deserve  the  fair,  as  I  did  ! 


HER  OPINION   OF  THE   PLAY. 

DO  I  like  it  ?     I  think  it  just  splendid  ! 
You  see  how  I  speak  out  my  mind, 
And  I  think  't  would  be  better  if  men  did 

The  same  when  they  feel  so  inclined. 
But  no,  you  're  all  dumb  as  an  oyster, 
You  critics  who  sit  here  and  stare, 
Looking  grave  as  a  monk  in  his  cloister  — 
You  have  n't  laughed  once,  I  declare  ! 

I  'm  sure  there  's  been  lots  that  is  jolly, 

And  more  that 's  exciting,  you  '11  own ; 
Why,  I  pity  the  poor  hero's  folly 

As  if  he  were  some  one  I  'd  known  ! 
And  was  n't  it  grand  and  heroic 

When  he  shielded  that  friendless  girl  Sue  ? 
'T  would  have  quickened  the  pulse  of  a  stoic, 

But  of  course,  sir,  it  could  n't  rouse  you  ! 

And  then  for  the  villain  De  Lancey  — 
Now,  does  n't  he  act  with  a  dash  ? 


I50        HER   OPINION  OF  THE  PLAY. 

Such  art  and  such  delicate  fancy, 

And  —  did  you  observe  his  moustache  ? 

He  made  my  very  blood  tingle 

When  he  threw  himself  down  on  his  knees  — 

Do  you  know  if  he  's  married  or  single? 
Yes,  the  villain  —  there,  laugh  if  you  please  ! 


I  admit  I  know  nothing  of  "  action," 

Of  "  unities,"  "  plot,"  and  the  rest, 
But  the  play  gives  complete  satisfaction, 

And  that  is  a  good  enough  test. 
Yes,  I  know  you  will  pick  it  to  pieces 

In  your  horribly  savage  review, 
But,  for  me,  its  interest  increases 

Because  't  will  be  censured  by  you  ! 

I  should  think  't  would  be  awfully  jolly 

For  the  author  to  make  such  a  hit ; 
How  he  pricks  all  the  bubbles  of  folly 

With  his  sharp  little  needle  of  wit ! 
I  am  sure  he  is  perfectly  charming, 

Or  he  never  could  write  such  a  play  - 
(I  declare,  sir,  it 's  really  alarming 

To  have  you  sit  staring  that  way  !) 


And  oh,  if  I  only  were  brighter, 
And  not  such  a  poor  little  dunce, 


HER   OPINION  OF  THE  PLAY.          151 

I  should  so  like  to  meet  with  the  writer, 
For  I  know  I  should  love  him  at  once. 

Yes,  I  should,  though  you  think  it  audacious, 
And  I  'd  tell  him  so,  too,  which  is  more, 

—you  are  the  author?  —  good  gracious  ! 
Why  did  n't  you  say  so  before  ? 


THE   QUEEN   OF   HEARTS. 

A  /T  UD-STAINED  and  torn,  upon  the  sidewalk 
-LV1  iyjng> 

Stripped  of  the  glory  of  her  regal  parts, 
Yet  still  the  turn  of  fortune's  wheel  defying, 
I  found,  to-day,  this  tattered  queen  of  hearts. 

Where  now,  I  wonder,  are  her  old  companions, 

The  fifty-one  inseparable  friends  ? 
In  beer  saloons,  or  Rocky  Mountain  canons  — 

At  sea,  or  in  the  earth's  remotest  ends  ? 

Like  Israel's  tribe  they  're  tossed  about  and  scattered, 
The  kings  themselves  perhaps  have  grown  unclean ; 

And  yet,  though  cast  aside  and  mud-bespattered, 
This  exile  queen  of  hearts  is  still  a  queen. 

Who  knows  but  some  time  jewelled  fingers  shuffled 
The  pack  in  which  she  held  an  honored  place  ? 

Who  knows  what  placid  tempers  she  has  ruffled 
At  whist,  by  trumping  an  obtrusive  ace  ? 


THE   QUEEN  OF  HEARTS.  153 

Or  when  the  higher  honors  both  were  boarded, 
And  she  was  queen,  indeed,  of  all  the  pack, 

How  proudly  did  she  take  the  last  trump,  hoarded  — 
How  like  a  woman  did  she  win  the  jack  ! 

And  ah  !  how  fondly  was  her  face  regarded 
By  him  who  saw  its  deeply  crimson  blush, 

Just  after  he  had  doubtingly  discarded 

A  spade,  and  drawn  to  hearts  to  fill  a  flush  ! 

And  possibly  —  for  cards  are  evil's  marrow, 

And  queens  are  sometimes  instruments  of  sin  — 

'T  is  possible,  I  say,  that,  turned  at  faro, 

This  queen  has  caused  the  coppered  stack  to  win. 

Her  life,  I  fancy,  opened  bright  and  merry, 
But  unremittent  play  brought  penance  dear  ; 

And  so,  perchance,  from  rouge-et-noir  and  sherry, 
She  came  in  time  to  pinochle  and  beer. 

And  then  —  ah,  well !  no  sermon  need  I  utter  — 
Enough  to  know  she  lost  her  winning  arts, 

And,  all  forsaken,  sank  into  the  gutter, 

Like  many  another  luckless  queen  of  hearts  ! 


THE   WEATHER   IN   VERSE. 

THE  undersigned  desires,  in  a  modest  sort  of  way, 
To  make  the  observation,  which  properly  he  may, 
To  wit :  That  writing  verses  on  the  several  solar  seasons 
Is  most  uncertain  business,  and  for  these   conclusive 
reasons  : 


In  the  middle  of  the  Autumn  the  subscriber  did  com 
pose 

A  sonnet  on  November,  showing  how  the  spirit  grows 
Unhappy  and  despondent  at  the  season  of  the  year 
When  the  skies  are  dull  and  leaden,  and  the  days  are 
chill  and  drear. 


Perhaps  you  may  recall  to  mind  that,  when  November 

came, 

No  leaden  skies  nor  chilly  days  accompanied  the  same  ; 
But  the  weather  was  as  balmy  as  in  Florida  you  'd  find, 
And  that  sonnet  on  November  was  respectfully  declined  ! 


THE  WEATHER  IN  VERSE.  155 

With  laudable  ambition  to  prepare  a  worthy  rhyme, 
The  writer  wrote  a  Christmas  song  three  weeks  ahead 

of  time ; 
And  there  was  frequent  reference  to  the  sharp  and 

piercing  air, 
And  likewise  to  the  cold  white  snow  that  covered  earth 

so  fair. 


I  scarcely  need  remind  you  that  the  Christmas  did  not 

bring 
The  piercing  air  and  cold  white  snow  of  which  I  chose 

to  sing : 

'T  was  all  ethereal  mildness  while  for  icicles  I  yearned, 
And  of  course  my  frigid  verses  were  with  cordial  warmth 

returned. 


This  very  Spring  I  set  to  work  —  't  was  on  an  April  day, 
And  warm  as  June  —  I  set  to  work  and  wrote  an  ode 

on  May  ; 
The  inspiration  may  have  come  in  part  from  what  I 

owed, 
But  while  I  sang  of  gentle  Spring  I  swear  it  up  and 

snowed  ! 


And  once,  when  dew  inspired  me  a  pastoral  to  spin, 
It  happened,  when  the   poem  was  done,  a   dreadful 
drought  set  in ; 


156  THE    WEATHER  IN   VERSE. 

There  was  no  moisture  in  the  earth,  which  dry  and 

dryer  grew, 
And  the  piece  on  dew  came  back  to  me  with  six  cents 

postage  due  ! 


And  for  these  conclusive  reasons  it  is  obviously  plain 
That  verses  on  the  weather  are  precarious  and  vain ; 
And  the  undersigned  would  only  add,  so  far  as  he  can 

see, 
The  trouble  's  not  the  metre,  but  the  meteorology  ! 


i 


TO   A   PRETTY  SCHOOLMA'AM. 

F  only  fate  would  grant,  thus  late,  the  one  thing  I 

beseech  'er  — 
That  I  might  go  to  school  again,  and  have  you  for  my 

teacher  — 

I  'd  pick  up  more  of  solid  lore  before  a  week  was  ended 
Than  ever  yet  I  've  chanced  to  get  at  all  the  schools 

I  Ve  'tended. 

I  wouldn't  ask  again  to  bask  in  childhood's  sunlight 

brisker  — 
I  'd  take  my  seat  just  as  I  am,  with  coat-tail  and  with 

whisker, 
And  every  rule  laid  down  in  school  should  have  my 

strict  alliance ; 
I  'd  fairly  live  on  wisdom's  bread,  and  drink  of  naught 

but  science  ! 

The  irksome  path  which  learning  hath  would  turn  to 

one  of  pleasure, 
And  every  musty  "  ology  "  become  a  precious  treasure  ; 


158        TO  A   PRETTY  SCHOOLMA'AM. 

With  porous  mind,  intent  to  find  the  truth  of  your  in 
struction, 
I  'd  grow  a  sort  of  learned  sponge  —  a  philosophic 

suction  ! 

Astronomy  would  have  for  me  a  charm  before  unheeded, 
When  neither  chart  nor  telescope  would  ever  once  be 

needed ; 
I  'd  never  pore  long  hours  o'er  a  problem  wrong  to 

right  it, 
For  I  would  make  your  face  the  sky,  your  eyes  the 

stars  that  light  it. 

From  botany  I  'd  quickly  cull  the  very  germ  and  es 
sence, 

And  learn  to  tell  the  panicle  or  spadix  inflorescence. 

Ah,  little  need  I  'd  have  indeed  of  what  the  book 
deposes ; 

I  'd  take  your  cheeks  for  specimens,  and  analyze  their 
roses. 


Conchology  would   no  more   be   a  science  dull  and 

prosy ; 
I  'd  catch  a  sight  of  small  teeth  white  between  lips  ripe 

and  rosy, 
And  then  for  bivalves  I  would  crave,  and  wonder  late 

and  early 
If  ever  in  a  mollusk  yet  were  hidden  pearls  so  pearly. 


TO  A    PRETTY  SCHOOLMA>AM.        159 

And  as  for  ornithology  —  the  cuckoo,  C.  canorus, 
Might  chirp  away  the  live-long  day,  I  should  n't  heed 

his  chorus ; 
Your  voice  would  be  enough  for  me,  and  with  its  music 

ringing, 
I  'd  cease  to   think   the  bobolink  knew   anything   of 

singing. 

Mythology  would  cease  to  be  an  antiquated  fable, 

When  I  could  turn,  and  there  discern  a  Hebe  at  the 
table. 

Things  palseontological  would  live  beneath  your  teach 
ing — 

I  'd  even  take  theology,  if  you  would  do  the  preaching. 

And  thus  together  while  we  trod  through  learning's 

tangled  mazes, 
And  caught  a  peep  at  science  deep  amid  its  countless 

phases, 

We  'd  learn  at  last  by  physic's  laws,  most  rigidly  enacted, 
How  very  natural  it  is  that  bodies  are  attracted  ! 


A  SONG. 

I   WILL  drink  this  amber-hued, 
Aromatic  sherry 
To  the  girl  I  loved  and  wooed  — 

Modest  maiden  merry  — 
Loved  and  wooed  so  long  ago  : 
When  it  was  I  scarce  may  know. 

I  will  drink  to  those  old  times 
When  to  breathe  was  pleasure ; 

When  my  pulse  in  rhythmic  rhymes 
Beat  to  Love's  own  measure  ; 

When  the  dreams  of  youth  were  mine, 

Amber-hued  like  sherry  wine. 

From  the  goblet  I  will  drain 

Time's  forgotten  flavor ; 
Taste  those  golden  days  again, 

Sweetened  by  Love's  favor, 
While  I  feel  the  draught  divine 
Warming  all  my  blood  like  wine. 


A    SONG. 

What  if  love  be  at  an  end, 
Life  no  longer  merry  ? 

Here  's  a  true  and  trusty  friend, 
Aromatic  sherry ; 

Truer  than  my  love,  I  know, 

Many,  many  years  ago  ! 


FLORA   TEMPLE. 

THEY  have  driven  her  in  through  the  broad,  broad 
gate, 

On  the  track  where  time  is  taken  no  more ; 
They  have  driven  her  in,  so  calm  and  sedate 
You  scarce  would  have  known  her  who  knew  her 
before. 

The  days  of  her  triumphs  had  long  ago  fled  ; 

All  stripped  of  her  strength,  bereft  of  her  grace, 
She  stood  while  the  years  passed  over  her  head, 

Patiently  waiting  to  enter  Death's  race. 

Rivals  rose  up  to  snatch  from  her  brow 

The  crown  which  had  decked  it,  the  laurel-wreath 

green  — 
Swift-footed,  impetuous  animals  now  — 

They  were  stripling  colts  when  Flora  was  queen  ! 

Her  record  was  beaten,  its  prestige  was  slain, 
By  halves  and  by  quarters  they  whittled  it  down, 

While  the  stern  driver,  Age,  drew  tighter  the  rein, 
And  gave  her  no  chance  to  win  back  the  crown. 


FLORA    TEMPLE.  163 

So,  robbed  of  her  glory,  pray  what  could  she  do 
But  dream  of  the  triumphs  won  in  her  prime, 

When  Kalamazoo  was  the  Waterloo 

Which  routed  her  rivals  and  slaughtered  Time? 

Then  a  tear  for  her  memory,  a  cheer  for  her  fame, 
For  the  plucky  old  mare  who  has  drawn   her  last 
breath ; 

And  write  on  the  card,  along  with  her  name  : 
"  She  never  was  distanced  except  by  Death !  " 


UP  IN   A   BALLOON. 

THE  little  earth  recedes  from  view 
I  leave  its  low  dominions, 
And  sail  into  the  upper  blue 

On  free  and  fearless  pinions. 
The  river  like  a  serpent  creeps 

With  slow  and  willowy  motion, 
And,  gazing  into  purple  deeps, 
I  scan  the  troubled  ocean. 

Full  nigh  a  hundred  years  are  gone 

Since  first  the  world's  attention, 
Half  idly,  was  (in  Paris)  drawn 

Unto  a  balloon  ascension. 
From  then  till  now,  below,  above, 

Behold  man's  domination, 
Still  halting  at  this  problem  of 

The  mid-air's  navigation. 

But  ere  another  hundred  years 
Down  Time's  abyss  has  speeded, 

The  doubt  shall  rise,  and  lusty  cheers 
Shall  greet  the  man  most  needed. 

And  then  behold  the  wondering  world 
Exposed  no  more  to  chances, 


UP  IN  A   BALLOON.  165 

But  on  the  storm's  trained  pinions  whirled 
Through  ether's  vast  expanses. 

From  this  high  place  I  see  to-day 

That  future  grandly  rising ; 
I  see  the  sailors  sail  away, 

New  lands  and  worlds  surprising ; 
I  see  the  wealth  of  far  Cathay, 

The  wealth  of  song  and  story, 
Brought  as  an  offering  to  lay 

Before  our  shrine  of  glory. 

The  far-off  lands  approach  so  near, 

A  single  day  suffices 
To  go  from  northern  Winters  drear 

To  tropic  groves  of  spices. 
No  more  the  treacherous  sea  shall  fright 

Its  victims  with  its  wailing  — 
We  '11  cross  it  in  a  single  night, 

In  air-ships  swiftly  sailing. 

Speed  faster  on,  O  wings  of  Time  ! 

Rise  higher,  soul  of  science  ! 
Till  man  shall  stand  erect,  sublime, 

And  bid  the  world  defiance. 
And  when  the  earth  recedes  from  view, 

Above  its  low  dominions 
We  '11  sail  into  the  upper  blue 

On  free  and  fearless  pinions. 


BETWEEN   THE   ACTS. 

DID  I  sigh,  or  was  it  your  fancy ? 
You  're  certain  —  quite  certain  ?    Ah,  well 
Who  is  that  in  the  box  with  De  Lancy? 

No  matter.     You  're  bound  I  shall  tell 
Why  it  was  that  I  sighed.     On  my  honor, 

'T  would  puzzle  me  sorely  to  say  : 
A  sigh  is  hardly  in  keeping 

With  the  rollicking  tone  of  the  play. 

And  here,  in  the  midst  of  this  glitter, 

This  glory  and  glamour  and  glare, 
One  ought  to  forget  what  is  bitter, 

And  drown  the  grim  spectre  of  Care  ; 
One  ought  to  be  merry,  if  ever, 

And  find  himself  quite  at  his  ease 
With  the  music,  the  play  and  the  people, 

And  with  you  at  his  side,  my  Louise. 

That  air  is  from  "  II  Trovatore  ;  " 
I  like  it  —  the  opera  —  don't  you  ? 

The  orchestra  is  n't  my  story  ? 
Beg  pardon ;  it  is  n't,  that 's  true. 


BETWEEN  THE  ACTS.  167 

Then  why  do  I  shun  a  confession  ? 

I  Ve  nothing,  my  love,  to  confess ; 
A  sigh  is  a  trivial  matter, 

To  cause  you  such  honest  distress. 

Let  me  say  that  you  never  looked  fairer 

Nor  younger,  I  vow,  than  to-night ; 
Your  beauty  is  riper  and  rarer 

Than  ever  before  in  my  sight ; 
And  the  play  is  the  best  of  the  season, 

And  you  are  a  queen  to  my  eye, 
And  nothing  could  add  to  my  pleasure  — 

How  awkward  it  was,  then,  to  sigh  ! 

Perhaps  't  was  the  music  awaking 

A  memory  long  overcast ; 
Perhaps  the  champagne  I  Ve  been  taking 

Has  brought  up  a  ghost  of  the  past. 
Whatever  it  was,  I  was  thinking, 

Just  now  as  you  spoke,  of  the  days 
When  I  lived  on  the  farm  at  The  Corners, 

And  dreamed  of  the  world  and  its  ways. 

The  stage  and  the  footlights  vanished, 
The  strains  of  the  music  were  hushed, 

While  memories  long  ago  banished 
Like  a  great  wave  over  me  rushed  ; 

And  the  present  was  drowned  so  completely 
That  my  eyes  could  only  behold 


168  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS. 

How  the  world  was  twenty  years  younger, 
And  I  was  but  twenty  years  old  ! 

And  there,  in  the  box,  where  De  Lancy 

Sits  reading  the  bill  of  the  play, 
I  saw  in  the  realm  of  my  fancy 

The  meadow- land  stretching  away; 
And  the  house,  with  its  broad,  black  chimney, 

And  the  brave  old  sycamore-trees, 
And  the  gate  with  its  broken  hinges  — 

They  were  there  in  the  box,  Louise. 

And  I  heard  —  not  the  music  of  Verdi  — 

But  the  brook  as  it  rippled  along 
At  the  foot  of  the  gnarled  oak  sturdy, 

Repeating  its  rhythmical  song ; 
And  the  meek-faced  cows  in  the  pasture  — 

I  saw  them  distinctly,  I  '11  swear  — 
They  were  gazing  in  mild-eyed  wonder 

From  the  back  of  De  Lancy's  chair  ! 

And  the  full-throated  robins  were  singing 

A  song  that  I  had  not  forgot ; 
And  De  Lancy  himself  there  was  swinging 

A  reaping-hook  down  in  the  lot ; 
And  the  echo  of  childish  laughter 

Rang  out  on  my  listening  ear, 
And  I  saw  but  the  gold  of  the  sunset 

While  I  gazed  at  that  gilt  chandelier. 


BETWEEN  THE  ACTS. 

You  smile  at  all  this,  and  no  wonder  — 

My  picture  is  stupid  ?    Alas  ! 
Could  you  look  as  I  looked  at  it,  under 

The  magic  of  memory's  glass, 
It  would  steal  from  the  past  such  a  beauty 

As  should  hold  and  enrapture  your  eye, 
As  would  thrill  you  and  fill  you  with  longings 

Which  might,  perhaps,  end  in  a  sigh  — 

A  sigh  for  those  days  strong  and  sturdy, 

When  life  had  no  intricate  sums, 
When  I  could  not  tell  Balfe  from  Verdi, 

Nor  the  taste  of  St.  Julien  from  Mumm's  ; 
When  I  toiled  with  an  honest  endeavor 

And  slept  without  di earning  of  stocks  ; 
When  I  ate  with  my  knife  and  a  relish, 

And  never  had  sat  in  a  box. 

And  I  sighed  because  I  was  thinking 

Of  hopes  that  were  hollow  and  vain, 
And  because,  while  fancy  was  linking 

The  present  and  past  in  a  chain, 
There  rose  yet  another  fair  vision  — 

The  face  of  a  girl  whom  I  knew 
In  those  days  when  I  lived  at  The  Corners, 

And  before  I  thanked  fortune  for  you. 

Was  she  pretty?    Well,  not  if  you  fancy 
The  models  of  beauty  seen  here  ; 


i;0  BETWEEN  THE  ACTS. 

With  our  critical  friend  there,  De  Lancy, 
She  'd  hardly  pass  muster,  I  fear ; 

Yet  her  eyes  were  the  deepest  of  azure, 
Her  brow  was  surpassingly  fair, 

And  her  cheeks  were  as  fresh  as  the  roses 
Which  to-night  you  have  placed  in  your  hair. 

And  I  loved  her?    There,  pray  don't  be  jealous  ; 

It 's  twenty  years  now  since  we  met, 
And  a  passion,  no  matter  how  zealous, 

Never  lasted  through  twenty  years  yet. 
I  loved  her,  perhaps,  or  I  thought  so, 

In  those  early,  confiding  old  days, 
When  I  lived  at  the  farm  at  The  Corners, 

And  dreamed  of  the  world  and  its  ways. 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  when  we  parted  — 

But  that  was  a  long  time  ago  ; 
Perhaps  she  has  lived  broken-hearted? 

Perhaps  so  —  I  really  don't  know. 
But,  trusting  alone  to  my  fancy, 

Her  heart  is  all  right,  I  should  say  — 
That  is  she  in  the  box  with  De  Lancy, 

And  —  here  's  the  last  act  of  the  play. 


THE   WINNING   SUIT. 

"  T  T  AD  I  played  my  heart,"  she  said, 
JL  JL      Too  ready  to  take  the  blame  — 

"  Had  I  played  my  heart  instead 

Of  diamonds,  when  you  led, 

We  should  not  have  lost  the  game." 

'T  was  whist,  and  nothing  more  — - 

Prosaic,  respectable  whist  — 
And  you  might  have  guessed  from  the  score, 
Had  you  chosen  to  glance  it  o'er, 

That  we  needed  the  point  we  missed. 

I  blundered  at  every  play, 

I  trumped  my  partner's  high, 
Threw  kings  on  aces  away  — 
And  yet  who  would  n't,  pray, 

'Neath  the  glance  of  her  dazzling  eye  ? 

For  never,  I  think,  did  I  hold 
Such  wretched  hands,  nor  spoil 

The  possible  essence  we  're  told 

A  two-spot  or  tray  may  unfold, 

When  handled  according  to  Hoyle. 


172  THE    WINNING  SUIT. 

What  mattered  to  me  the  game, 

When  I  knew  by  my  heart's  quick  thumps 
That,  whether  the  red  suits  came, 
Or  the  blacks,  it  was  all  the  same, 
For  Love  that  night  was  trumps. 

Yes,  Love  was  trumps,  I  ween, 

(Alas,  that  it  was,  and  alack  !) 
For  what  did  her  glances  mean, 
This  woman  I  held  as  the  queen 

Of  all  queens  in  the  world's  great  pack  ? 

"She  has  played  her  heart,"  thought  I, 
"  In  an  older  game  than  whist ; 

And  diamonds  never  can  buy 

A  glance  like  that,  nor  a  sigh, 
Nor  lips  like  hers  to  be  kissed  !  " 

Ah,  well,  for  the  dreams  of  that  night, 
And  well  for  the  whispered  vow ; 

The  years  have  brought  in  their  flight 

The  power  of  keener  sight, 
And  I  think  of  her  coolly  now. 

"Had  I  diamonds  played,"  I  say, 
"  When  I  offered  to  her  my  name  — 

Had  I  diamonds  had  to  play, 

Instead  of  a  heart  to  slay, 

I  should  not  have  lost  the  game  ! " 


VERY  TANTALIZING. 

THE  tortures  of  Tantalus  (wretched  old  duffer) 
Were  very  provoking,  no  doubt, 
And  Prometheus  was  given  a  chance  to  suffer 

While  his  vitals  were  eaten  out ; 
Sisyphus  rolling  his  stone  forever, 
Ixion  bound  tight  to  the  wheel, 
And  Tityus  feasting  the  birds  on  his  liver, 
All  these  to  our  pity  appeal. 

Yet  I  claim  that,  with  equal  or  greater  fitness, 

Our  pity  we  now  may  bestow 
On  the  fellow  who  finds  himself  doomed  to  witness 

What  I  did  last  night  at  a  show ; 
'Twas  the  sight  of  one  pretty  woman  making 

Hot  love  to  another  as  fair, 
A  sight  to  rouse  the  old  Adam  by  waking 

A  longing  to  try  such  a  pair. 

What  a  waste  it  involved  of  feminine  sweetness, 

When  either  the  lover  or  maid 
Would  have  filled  the  measure  to  perfect  completeness, 

Had  the  love-scene  in  private  been  played  ! 
And  how  could  one  carry  the  stage  illusion 

When  he  gazed  on  the  cavalier  sweet, 


74  VERY  TANTALIZING. 

Who  displayed  her  womanly  charms  in  profusion. 
And  was  luscious  enough  to  eat  ? 

In  truth,  by  no  possible  stretch  of  fancy 

Could  any  one  make  it  seem  right, 
For  gone  was  the  meat  of  Love's  necromancy, 

And  the  shell  was  insipid  and  trite. 
To  have  squeezed  the  hand  of  that  queenly  creature, 

I  'd  have  counted  a  blessing  myself; 
But  the  squeezing  became  a  very  tame  feature, 

When  done  by  the  other  sweet  elf ! 

You  have  heard  the  Spanish  proverb,  that  kisses 

Without  a  moustache  are  like  eggs 
Without  the  salt,  and  it  strikes  me  that  this  is 

A  question  that  nobody  begs ; 
I  thought  so  last  night,  when  kisses  were  wasted 

In  a  way  which  was  really  a  fault  — 
How  those  osculatory  eggs  would  have  tasted, 

If  I  could  have  furnished  the  salt ! 

So  I  hold  that,  for  genuine  tantalization, 

Those  classic  old  chaps  knew  naught  ; 
They  found,  at  least,  some  compensation 

In  the  glory  their  tortures  brought ; 
But  to  watch  the  love-making  of  one  pretty  woman 

To  another  would  make  the  gods  grieve  — 
'T  would  rouse  the  old  Adam  in  any  breast  human, 

And  in  some,  perhaps,  the  old  Eve  ! 


ROCKET, 

I'LL  tell  you  how  the  Christmas  came 
To  Rocket  —  no,  you  never  met  him, 
That  is,  you  never  knew  his  name, 

Although  't  is  possible  you  Ve  let  him 
Display  his  skill  upon  your  shoes ; 
A  boot-black  —  Arab,  if  you  choose  : 
Has  inspiration  dropped  to  zero 
When  such  material  makes  a  hero  ? 

And  who  was  Rocket  ?    Well,  an  urchin, 

A  gamin,  dirty,  torn  and  tattered, 
Whose  chiefest  pleasure  was  to  perch  in 

The  Bowery  gallery ;  there  it  mattered 
But  little  what  the  play  might  be  — • 
Broad  farce  or  point-lace  comedy  — 
He  meted  out  his  just  applause 
By  rigid,  fixed  and  proper  laws. 
A  father  once  he  had,  no  doubt, 

A  mother  on  the  Island  staying, 
Which  left  him  free  to  knock  about 

And  gratify  a  taste  for  straying 
Through  crowded  streets.     'T  was  there  he  found 
Companionship,  and  grew  renowned. 


176  ROCKET. 

An  ash-box  served  him  for  a  bed  — 

As  good,  at  least,  as  Moses'  rushes  — 
And  for  his  daily  meat  and  bread, 

He  earned  them  with  his  box  and  brushes. 
An  Arab  of  the  city's  slums, 

With  ready  tongue  and  empty  pocket, 
Unaided  left  to  solve  life's  sums, 

But  plucky  always  —  that  was  Rocket ! 

'T  was  Christmas  eve,  and  all  the  day 
The  snow  had  fallen  fine  and  fast ; 
In  banks  and  drifted  heaps  it  lay 
Along  the  streets.     A  piercing  blast 
Blew  cuttingly.     The  storm  was  past, 
And  now  the  stars  looked  coldly  down 
Upon  the  snow-enshrouded  town. 

Ah,  well  it  is  if  Christmas  brings 
Good-will  and  peace  which  poet  sings. 
How  full  are  all  the  streets  to-night 
With  happy  faces,  flushed  and  bright ! 
The  matron  in  her  silks  and  furs, 

The  pompous  banker,  fat  and  sleek. 
The  idle,  well-fed  loiterers, 

The  merchant  trim,  the  churchman  meek, 
Forgetful  now  of  hate  and  spite, 
For  all  the  world  is  glad  to-night ! 
All,  did  I  say  ?     Ah,  no,  not  all, 
For  sorrow  throws  on  some  its  pall ; 


ROCKET.  177 

And  here,  within  the  broad,  fair  city, 
The  Christmas  time  no  beauty  brings 

To  those  who  plead  in  vain  for  pity, 
To  those  who  cherish  but  the  stings 

Of  wretchedness  and  want  and  woe, 

Who  never  love's  great  bounty  know, 

Whose  grief  no  kindly  hands  assuage, 

Whose  misery  mocks  our  Christian  age. 

Pray  ask  yourself  what  means  to  them 

That  Christ  is  born  in  Bethlehem  ! 

But  Rocket?     On  this  Christmas  eve 

You  might  have  seen  him  standing  where 
The  city's  streets  so  interweave 

They  form  that  somewhat  famous  square 
Called  Printing  House.     His  face  was  bright, 

And  at  this  gala,  festive  season 
You  could  not  find  a  heart  more  light  — 

I  '11  tell  you  in  a  word  the  reason  : 
By  dint  of  patient  toil  in  shining 

Patrician  shoes  and  Wall  Street  boots, 
He  had,  within  his  jacket's  lining, 

A  dollar  and  a  half —  the  fruits 
Of  pinching,  saving,  and  a  trial 
Of  really  Spartan  self-denial. 
That  dollar  and  a  half  was  more 
Than  Rocket  ever  owned  before. 
A  princely  fortune,  so  he  thought, 

And  with  those  hoarded  dimes  and  nickels 


1 78  ROCKET. 

What  Christmas  pleasures  may  be  bought ! 

A  dollar  and  a  half !     It  tickles 
The  boy  to  say  it  over,  musing 
Upon  the  money's  proper  using : 
"  I  '11  go  a  gobbler,  leg  and  breast, 

With  cranberry-sauce  and  fixin's  nice, 
And  pie,  mince-pie,  the  very  best, 

And  puddin'  —  say  a  double  slice  ! 
And  then  to  doughnuts  how  I  '11  freeze, 
With  coffee  —  guess  that  ere  's  the  cheese  ! 
And  after  grub  I  '11  go  to  see 
The  '  Seven  Goblins  of  Dundee.' 
If  this  yere  Christmas  ain't  a  buster, 
I  '11  let  yer  rip  my  Sunday  duster  !  " 

So  Rocket  mused  as  he  hurried  along, 

Clutching  his  money  with  grasp  yet  tighter, 
And  humming  the  air  of  a  rollicking  song, 

With  a  heart  as  light  as  his  clothes  —  or  lighter. 
Through  Centre  Street  he  makes  his  way, 

When,  just  as  he  turns  the  corner  at  Pearl, 
He  hears  a  voice  cry  out  in  dismay, 

And  sees  before  him  a  slender  girl, 
As  ragged  and  tattered  in  dress  as  he, 
With  hand  stretched  forth  for  charity. 
In  the  street-light's  fitful  and  flickering  glare 

He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  pale,  pinched  face  - 
So  gaunt  and  wasted,  yet  strangely  fair, 

With  a  lingering  touch  of  childhood's  grace 


ROCKET.  179 

On  the  delicate  features.     Her  head  was  bare, 

And  over  her  shoulders  disordered  there  hung 
A  mass  of  tangled,  nut-brown  hair. 

In  misery  old  as  in  years  she  was  young, 
She  gazed  in  his  face.     And  oh,  for  the  eyes  — 
The  big,  blue,  sorrowful,  hungry  eyes  !  — 

That  were  fixed  in  a  desperate  frightened  stare. 
Hundreds  have  jostled  her  by  to-night  — 

The  rich,  the  great,  the  good  and  the  wise, 
Hurrying  on  to  the  warmth  and  light 
Of  happy  homes  —  they  have  jostled  her  by, 
And  the  only  one  who  has  heard  her  cry, 
Or,  hearing,  has  felt  his  heartstrings  stirred, 

Is  Rocket  —  this  youngster  of  coarser  clay, 
This  gamin,  who  never  so  much  as  heard 

The  beautiful  story  of  Him  who  lay 

In  the  manger  of  old  on  Christmas  day  ! 


With  artless  pathos  and  simple  speech, 

She  stands  and  tells  him  her  pitiful  tale ; 
Ah,  well  if  those  who  pray  and  preach 

Could  catch  an  echo  of  that  sad  wail. 
She  tells  of  the  terrible  battle  for  bread, 

Tells  of  a  father  brutal  with  crime, 
Tells  of  a  mother  lying  dead, 

At  this,  the  gala  Christmas  time  ; 
Then  adds,  gazing  up  at  the  starlit  sky : 
"  I  'm  hungry  and  cold,  and  I  wish  I  could  die  !  " 


i8o  ROCKET. 

What  is  it  trickles  down  the  cheek 

Of  Rocket  —  can  it  be  a  tear  ? 
He  stands  and  stares,  but  does  not  speak ; 

He  thinks  again  of  that  good  cheer 
Which  Christmas  was  to  bring ;  he  sees 

The  visions  of  turkey  and  steaming  pies, 
The  playbills  —  then,  in  place  of  these, 

The  girl's  beseeching,  hungry  eyes ; 
One  mighty  effort,  gulping  down 

The  disappointment  in  his  breast, 
A  quivering  of  the  lip,  a  frown, 

And  then,  while  Pity  pleads  her  best, 
He  snatches  forth  his  cherished  hoard, 
And  gives  it  to  her  like  a  lord  ! 
"  Here,  freeze  to  that ;  I  'm  flush,  yer  see, 
And  then  you  needs  it  more  'an  me  !  " 
With  that  he  turns  and  walks  away, 
So  fast  the  girl  can  nothing  say, 
So  fast  he  does  not  hear  the  prayer 
That  sanctifies  the  Winter  air. 
But  He  who  blessed  the  widow's  mite 
Looked  down  and  smiled  upon  the  sight. 

No  feast  of  steaming  pies  or  turkey, 

No  ticket  for  the  matine'e, 
All  drear  and  desolate  and  murky, 

In  truth,  a  very  dismal  day, 
With  dinner  on  a  crust  of  bread, 

And  not  a  penny  in  his  pocket, 


ROCKET. 

A  friendly  ash-box  for  a  bed  — 

Thus  came  the  Christmas  day  to  Rocket. 
And  yet  —  and  here  's  the  strangest  thing  — 

As  best  befits  the  festive  season, 
The  boy  was  happy  as  a  king  — 

I  wonder  can  you  guess  the  reason  ? 


THE   FAME   UNSOUGHT. 

ONCE  there  lived  in  an  age  unrecorded, 
In  a  land  far  over  the  sea, 
A  poet,  whom  nobody  lauded, 

Whom  few  even  knew  to  be ; 
A  poet  whose  fancy  forever  soared 
Among  the  stars,  whose  soul  outpoured 
Itself  in  stately  measures,  stored 

With  learning  and  the  fruit  of  thought. 

Ah,  patiently  and  long  he  wrought, 

And  always  sang  in  lofty  strains 

Of  deeds  heroic,  war's  red  stains, 

And  all  the  glory  valor  gains. 

Thus,  while  he  sang,  the  years  unrecorded 

Passed  over  the  poet's  head ; 
And  still  there  was  no  one  his  work  applauded  — 

But  few  his  lines  ever  read. 
Then  the  fire,  which  long  in  his  soul  had  blazed, 
Was  quenched  at  last ;  and,  perplexed,  amazed, 
With  weary  brain  and  aching  heart, 
He  turned  him  from  his  cherished  art. 


THE  FAME   UNSOUGHT.  183 

"  The  love  of  right,  the  hate  of  wrong, 
These  have  I  woven  in  my  song, 
These  have  I  sung  in  measures  strong  : 
But  lo  !  my  name  is  all  unknown  — 

I  thought  to  write  it  in  letters  of  gold  — 
But  wearily  the  years  have  flown, 

Till  now,  when  the  singer  is  gray  and  old, 
His  story  remains  forever  untold  !  " 

Then,  as  indeed  most  natural  seemed, 
The  poet's  sorrow  found  a  tongue 

In  song  —  not  such  as  he  had  dreamed 

Would  bring  him  fame,  when  he  was  young, 

But  only  simple  strains,  which  told 

The  anguish  of  a  heart  grown  old 

In  waiting  for  the  buds  of  promise 

Their  leaves  in  fragrance  to  unfold. 

When  lo  !  the  world  caught  up  the  strain, 
And  sang  it  once,  and  yet  again, 
Until  the  unknown  poet's  name 
Was  writ  in  letters  of  deathless  fame  ! 


STAR-LOVE. 

INTO  the  desert  Despair  I  am  driven, 
Stung  by  the  lashes  of  memory  keen, 
For  mine  is  the  horrible  crime  unforgiven, 
The  sin  unseen  ! 

My  heart  was  redder  than  hearts  of  roses, 

My  blood  was  redder  than  reddest  wine, 
My  dreams  were  like  sunsets  which  June  discloses, 
For  Love  was  mine. 

I  worshipped  a  seraph,  and  she  for  me  only 

Dwelt  in  a  radiant,  palpitant  star ; 
And  night  after  night,  through  all  the  nights  lonely, 
I  loved  her  afar. 

Oh,  think  not  this  love  was  the  sensual,  common, 

Every-day  passion  of  every-day  man  ! 
In  channels  like  this,  no  love  for  mere  woman 
Ever  yet  ran. 


STAR-LOVE.  !35 

I  turned  me  aside  from  one  whose  sweet  being 

WTas  wound  round  my  own  like  a  blossoming  vine ; 
Bat-blind  was  my  soul  to  all  save  the  seeing 
My  seraph  star  shine. 

There,  there  was  my  heart  in  the  heavens  above  me, 

Wherever  that  bright  orb  held  its  way ; 
If  others  should  hate,  or  if  others  should  love  me, 
What  mattered  it,  pray  ? 

The  song  of  the  robin,  the  children's  fresh  laughter, 
Sweet  tones  to  me  once,  now  discordantly  jarred  ; 
Such  sounds  become  senseless  to  him  reaching  after 
A  Love  seraph-starred  ! 

No  longer  to  pity's  appeal  could  I  listen, 

No  longer  find  peace  in  simple  pursuits, 
For  these,  unto  one  whose  star-love  must  glisten, 
Are  dead-sea  fruits  ! 

The  fragrance  of  old  I  missed  in  the  flowers, 

The  sunshine  grew  dim,  the  busy  world  tame ; 

So  burned  my  soul  out  with  its  God-given  powers, 

In  the  star's  fierce  flame  ! 

The  old  love  —  the  earth-love  —  was  quenched,  and 

forever ; 

Old  yearnings,  old  hopes,  old  friends,  stood  afar ; 
And  still  I  went  on  in  the  one  mad  endeavor 
To  reach  my  star  ! 


1 86  STAR-LOVE. 

O  planet  of  evil !    O  siren  unholy  ! 

Give  back  —  give  back  what  I  never  may  know  — 
That  peace  that  was  mine  when,  content  and  lonely, 
I  let  the  stars  go  ! 


IN   THE   MUSEUM. 

^CARNIVOROUS  beasts  from  the  tropical  climes, 
\~s    With  birds  resplendently  feathered, 
And  wonderful  relics  of  ancient  times, 
In  the  museum  here  are  gathered. 

Cetaceous  fishes  and  slimy  snakes, 

And  monkeys  amazingly  busy  — 
No  wonder  the  head  of  the  gazer  aches, 

No  wonder  his  brain  grows  dizzy. 

Inhaling  the  musty  odor,  I  tread 

Where  all  is  enveloped  in  wonder ; 
The  Twelve  Apostles  hang  over  my  head, 

With  an  Indian  tomahawk  under. 

The  stuffed  rhinoceros  savagely  glares 

With  his  glass  eye  fixed  and  defiant, 
While  the  hippopotamus  skeleton  scares 

The  famous  Western  giant. 


!88  IN  THE  MUSEUM. 

The  boneless  wonder  performs  his  acts 

And  bends  his  body  double, 
While  Charley  Ross  looks  on  in  wax, 

Forgetful  of  all  his  trouble. 

The  Albino  by  no  means  appears  at  ease, 

So  near  to  the  alligator ; 
While  the  Polar  Bear  is  inclined  to  freeze 

To  the  Lightning  Calculator. 

The  bearded  lady,  it  seems  to  me, 

Is  a  trifle  too  proud  and  airy ; 
Perhaps  she  fancies  herself  to  be 

An  heiress  as  well  as  hairy. 

While  the  fat  woman  smiles  in  a  gracious  way, 
And  sits  in  her  corner  shady  — 

If  flesh  be  grass,  what  a  lot  of  hay 
Could  be  harvested  from  this  lady. 

The  skeleton  stands  in  stockingless  feet, 
No  flesh  on  his  body  is  wasted ; 

If  nearer  the  bone  the  sweeter  the  meat, 
How  sweet  would  he  be  if  tasted  ! 

The  painter's  art  before  me,  I  see, 

Some  Biblical  scenes  discloses, 
And  in  them  Judas  is  shown  to  be 

Considerably  meeker  than  Moses. 


IN  THE  MUSEUM. 

And  here  —  oh,  strangest  of  nature's  freaks  — 
Are  the  wild  men  from  Molacho ; 

I  stand  and  listen  while  one  of  them  speaks  : 
"Say,  Mike,  have  you  got  some  tobacco?" 

Birds  and  beasts  and  fishes  and  snakes 

In  the  museum  all  so  busy  — 
What  wonder  the  head  of  the  gazer  aches, 

What  wonder  his  brain  grows  dizzy  ! 


T 


AUTUMN   LEAVES. 

VHE  leaves  are  turning  yellow, 
With  the  advent  of  October, 
When  every  luckless  fellow 

Assumes  an  air  that 's  sober 
And  proceeds  to  write  an  ode  upon  the  season  of  the 

year 
Which  brings  an  end,  presumably,  to  foliage  and  beer. 

This  annual  lamentation, 

Which  the  rhymster  still  rehearses, 
Has  created  a  stagnation 

In  the  sale  of  Autumn  verses  ; 

And  therefore  the  subscriber  would  respectfully  suggest 
That  all  these  sere  and  yellow  poets  proceed  to  take  a 
rest. 

A  multitude  of  reasons 

For  this  may  be  presented. 
For  example  :  all  the  seasons 

Should  make  us  quite  contented ; 


A  UTUMN  LEA  VES.  i  g  i 

And  as  for  falling  leaves,  we  know  't  is  but  a  natural 

thing : 
For  if  they  did  not  take  a  drop  they  could  not  bud  in 

Spring  ! 

And  why  —  pray  why  should  Autumn 

Make  sad  these  sundry  singers  ? 
It  rather  should  have  taught  'em 

That,  compared  with  Summer's  stingers, 
Or  the  freezing  breath  of  Winter,  there  's  no  weather  in 

the  year 
So  perfectly  adapted  both  to  punches  hot  and  beer  ! 

And  as  for  this  bewailing 

Because  of  Autumn  leaves, 
The  fellow  must  be  ailing 

Whose  muse  such  verses  weaves  ; 
For,  if  he  'd  stop  a  moment  to  reflect  on  what  he  sings, 
He  'd  find,  in  fact,  that  Autumn  leaves  some  very  pleas 
ant  things. 

It  leaves  a  man  less  lazy, 

With  less  sweat  upon  his  forehead ; 
It  leaves  the  days  more  hazy, 

And  the  nights  not  half  so  torrid ; 
It  leaves  a  fellow  hungrier  than  Summer  ever  could, 
With  appetite  well- sharpened  and  digestive  organs  good. 


1 92  A  UTUMN  LEA  VES. 

It  leaves  the  actors  playing 
In  the  city  all  so  merry ; 
It  leaves  some  time  for  paying 

The  bills  of  January ; 

It  leaves  your  lighter  ulster  looking  comfort'ble  and  fair 
Which  seemed  to  you  in  August  a  delusion  and  a  snare. 

It  leaves  the  mornings  moister, 

With  freshness  still  to  sweeten ; 
It  leaves  the  toothsome  oyster 
To  be  opened  up  and  eaten ; 
It  leaves  the  markets  loaded  with  juiciest  of  fruit, 
It  leaves  you  time  to  renovate  your  last  year's  Winter 
suit. 

And  so  I  hold  the  season 

Should  not  be  counted  sober 
For  so  insufficient  reason 

As  the  rhyming  of  October ; 
And,  concluding,  I  would  say  that,  while  such  comfort 

Autumn  leaves, 

Believe  me,  I  'd  as  lief  the  leaves  were  saffron-hued  as 
sheaves  ! 


HIS   PRETTIEST  TRICK. 

IT  was  the  Widow  Skinner's 
Professional  boarding-house, 
Where  the  customary  dinners 

Were  not  of  quail  or  grouse  ; 
But  the  table  it  was  home-like, 

As  the  widow  used  to  say, 
With  oyster-soup  and  turkey 
On  each  Thanksgiving  day. 

Now  Mrs.  Skinner's  boarders 

Were  an  interesting  group  ; 
They  belonged,  without  exception, 

To  some  variety  troupe, 
And  every  one  among  them 

Was  a  bright  particular  star 
(The  only  thing  about  the  place 

That  was  partic-u-lar) . 
There  was  charming  Maud  De  Spooner, 

Who  sang  serio-comic  songs  ; 
And  her  husband,  Herr  Von  Schooner, 

Who  handled  red-hot  tongs  ; 
13 


194 


HIS  PRETTIEST  TRICK. 

And  the  famous  Duster  Brothers, 

Of  song  and  dance  renown, 
And  the  champion  lady-jiggist, 

Who  had  paralyzed  the  town. 
There  was  also  Little  Tulip, 

Who  was  often  seized  by  the  S. 
For  the  P.  of  C.  to  Children, 

And  thus  advertised  for  less 
Than  the  cost  of  colored  posters  — 

And  Little  Tulip's  mar, 
And  the  gent  who  could  stand  with  composure 

On  his  head  on  a  raspberry  jar ; 
The  lady  trapeze-performer 

(Who  scorned  the  net  of  the  law), 
A  brace  of  Egyptian  jugglers, 

And  the  man  with  the  iron  jaw  — 
All  these  at  the  widow's  table, 

A  hearty  and  hungry  group, 
Sat  down,  on  a  certain  Thanksgiving, 

To  turkey  and  oyster-soup. 

Well  had  it  been  for  those  boarders, 

All  so  hungry  and  hearty, 
If  the  Great  Alaska  Wizard 

Had  not  been  one  of  the  party  ! 


The  Great  Alaska  Wizard, 

On  the  night  before,  had  applied 


HIS  PRETTIEST   TRICK.  195 

For  board  to  the  Widow  Skinner, 

Who  took  him  in  with  pride. 
For,  albeit  a  trifle  shabby 

The  broadcloth  suit  he  wore, 
The  widow  declared  she  had  never 

Met  a  nicer  man  before  ; 
And  that  was  the  general  verdict 

When  the  Wizard  was  ushered  in. 
There  was  nothing  wrong  about  him 

Except  he  was  very  thin  — 
As  void  of  solid  substance 

As  cast-off  barrel-hoops, 
As  thin  as  one  of  the  widow's 

Original  oyster-soups. 

Now,  gathered  about  the  table, 

All  so  hungry  and  hearty, 
With  appetites  thoroughly  able, 

Behold  that  professional  party. 
And  behold,  likewise,  the  turkey, 

Cooked  to  a  beautiful  tan, 
Immense  in  his  outward  proportions 

And  built  on  the  boarding-house  plan. 
Cranberry-sauce,  and  turnips, 

And  celery  sat  in  state, 
And  oyster-soup  in  abundance, 

With  one  oyster  allowed  to  a  plate. 
Well  had  it  been  with  the  others, 

All  so  hungry  and  hearty, 


196  HIS  PRETTIEST  TRICK. 

If  the  Great  Alaska  Wizard 

Had  not  been  one  of  the  party  ! 
For  he  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table, 

And  smiled  on  the  Tulip  kid, 
And  kindly  offered  to  show  her 

The  prettiest  trick  he  did. 
"  I  '11  do  it  now,"  he  continued, 

As  he  lightly  rose  from  his  chair  — 
"  That  is,  if  the  company  's  willing, 

And  our  landlady  does  n't  care. 
It  is  really  a  neat  illusion, 

And  will  give  you  an  appetite  rare.'* 
So,  before  the  soup  had  been  tasted, 

Or  the  turkey  had  lost  a  stick, 
The  artists  decided  to  witness 

The  Professor's  prettiest  trick. 

Better  it  were  if  those  boarders, 
Who  told  him  to  go  ahead, 

Had  tied  to  their  necks  that  turkey 
And  jumped  in  the  soup  instead. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  suave  Professor, 
"I  take  this  soup- tureen — 

It  is  free  from  all  deception, 
And  one  you  have  often  seen  — 

I  take  it  and  show  you  the  contents, 
Prepared,  as  you  know,  for  us, 


HIS  PRETTIEST  TRICK.  197 

And  then,  without  deception, 

I  proceed  to  dispose  of  it  —  thus  !  " 
In  amazement  dumb  the  boarders 

Saw  the  Wizard  tip  the  tureen, 
And  when  it  came  down  not  an  oyster, 

Not  a  teaspoon  of  soup,  could  be  seen  ! 
Aghast  looked  all  the  artists, 

And  so  did  Mrs.  Skinner ; 
But  the  Wizard  smiled,  and  only 

Looked  a  little  thinner. 

"  Now,  then,"  he  resumed,  as  he  finished 

The  wiping-off  of  his  chin, 
"  I  show  you  this  roasted  turkey  — 

We  all  of  us  saw  him  brought  in, 
And  know  he  is  free  from  deception ; 

Now,  without  any  fume  or  fuss, 
But  neatly,  and  so  you  can  see  me, 

I  proceed  to  dispose  of  him  —  thus  !  " 
With  interest  really  painful 

They  watched  him  devour  the  bird, 
And  not  even  phenomenal  Tulip 

Found  courage  to  utter  a  word. 
And  indeed  it  was  painful  — '  t  was  awful 

The  way  that  fowl  disappeared  ; 
In  less  than  three  minutes  no  morsel 

Of  meat  to  the  bones  adhered  ! 

"  It 's  simple  —  perfectly  simple," 
Remarked  the  remarkable  Wizard, 


1 98  HIS  PRETTIEST   TRICK. 

As  he  followed  the  second  drumstick 

With  the  last  of  the  stuffing  and  gizzard. 
"  There  's  no  deception  about  it  — 

I  '11  do  my  best  to  be  quick  — 
There,  now,  you  see  he  is  finished  — 

It 's  really  a  beautiful  trick  ! 
Merely  a  neat  illusion  — 

Although,  upon  my  word, 
If  you  were  n't  professional  people, 

You  might  think  I  had  eaten  the  bird  ! 
I  now  put  the  cover  over 

This  tureen,  which  is  empty,  you  know, 
While  the  bones  of  this  excellent  turkey 

I  wrap  in  this  napkin  so. 
I  '11  now  step  up  to  the  parlor, 

Stamp  once,  and  say  '  Presto,  be  quick  !  ' 
And  restore  the  soup  and  the  turkey  — 

It 's  really  my  prettiest  trick  !  " 

Lightly,  full  lightly  he  glided 

From  the  basement  dining-room, 
But  the  stars  he  left  behind  him 

Were  wrapped  in  Egypt's  gloom. 
There  came  no  stamp  from  the  parlor, 

There  came  no  "  Presto,  quick  !  " 
The  Great  Alaska  Wizard 

Had  finished  his  prettiest  trick  ! 


MY   NOBLE   RIVAL. 

IN  a  Pullman  I  met  her  while  on  way 
To  the  mountains  —  that  is,  to  the  White 
She  was  going,  I  found,  to  North  Conway, 

Whereat  I  was  filled  with  delight. 
For  that  was  my  own  destination  — 

The  spot  where  I  'd  chosen  to  spend 
My  limited  Summer  vacation  — 

And  my  limited  cash  —  with  a  friend. 

A  description,  I  know,  would  be  stupid 

Of  one  so  completely  equipped, 
As  was  she,  with  the  armor  of  Cupid  — 

The  description  shall  therefore  be  skipped ; 
Except  —  and  this  much  should  be  added 

For  the  sake  of  true  art,  be  it  said  — 
Her  figure  was  perfect,  not  padded, 

And  her  hair  had  its  roots  in  her  head, 

While  the  curve  of  her  chin  was  exquisite, 
And  a  something  about  her  —  a  dash 

(This  is  n't  describing  her,  is  it?) 
Electrified  one  like  a  flash. 


200  MY  NOBLE  RIVAL. 

I  saw  —  for  I  could  not  help  seeing  — 
That  her  blue  eyes  a  power  could  wield  — 

That  love  was  the  end  of  her  being  — 
That  her  No.  3  boots  were  French-heeled. 

I  helped  her  alight  at  the  station, 

And  also  her  weazen-faced  mother ; 
The  latter  made  some  observation 

Concerning  gratuitous  bother, 
At  which  I  looked  modest,  and  merely 

Remarked  't  was  no  bother  at  all ; 
While  my  charmer  said  :  "  Thank  you,  sincerely 

We  stop  at  the  Kearsarge  —  call !  " 

I  accepted  this  kind  invitation, 

To  say  so  perhaps  is  redundant ; 
And  I  found  she  enjoyed  conversation, 

For  beaux  were  by  no  means  abundant. 
So,  strolling  along  the  piazza., 

Or  lazily  lounging  together, 
We  chatted,  discovering  there  's  a 

Remarkable  theme  in  the  weather. 

In  a  week  we  were  closest  companions  — 

We  soared  on  invisible  wings, 
Explored  all  the  mountains  and  canyons, 

Collected  ferns,  fossils,  and  things  ; 
And  I  read  in  her  eyes  a  confession 

Which  kindled  love's  spark  to  a  flame  — 


MY  NOBLE  RIVAL.  20 1 

In  short,  I  had  made  an  impression, 
When  that  horrid  French  nobleman  came. 

The  Duke  Contor  something  or  other, 

She  called  him,  and  drew  a  long  breath ; 
And  for  me  —  well,  I  was  her  brother, 

She  would  hold  me  as  such  until  death  ! 
And  the  Duke  —  I  really  must  meet  him  — 

He  had  done  things  that  very  few  men  did, 
He  needed  no  charm  to  complete  him  — 

In  short,  he  was  perfectly  splendid. 

I  heard  and  was  silent.     I  could  n't 

Reproach  her,  nor  chide,  nor  rebuke ; 
For  where  is  the  maiden  who  would  n't 

Have  done  the  same  thing  for  a  Duke  ? 
But,  turning,  I  stood  like  a  dumb  thing, 

For  there,  on  the  nearest  of  benches  — 
Yes,  there,  in  the  Duke  Contor  something  — 

Was  the  barber  who  shaved  me  at  French's  ! 

I  packed  up  my  things  on  the  morrow, 

While  the  Duke,  to  my  secret  delight, 
But  the  landlord's  unspeakable  sorrow, 

Disappeared  from  North  Conway  that  night. 
And  now  is  the  fickle  one  lonely  — 

And  for  me,  I  have  trials  but  few, 
While  the  Duke  Contor  something  is  only 

A  conduketor  on  Third  Avenue  ! 


A  CURIOUS  WANT. 

"  WANTED  —  A  man  who  understands  the  five-cent  restaurant  busi 
ness."  —  New  York  Herald  Advertisement. 

WHAT  aggregated  wisdom  must 
That  fellow  be  possessed  of, 
Who  's  fit  to  seize  on  such  a  trust 
And  stand  the  seasoning  test  of. 

No  title  which  the  savant  flaunts, 
Nor  yet  degrees  from  college, 

Can  probe  the  five-cent  restaurant's 
Unpenetrated  knowledge. 

Think  of  things  a  man  must  know 

To  hold0this  rare  position  ! 
How  far  the  average  shank  should  go 

Before  it  fills  its  mission ; 

How  many  plates  a  pound  of  beef 

Will  yield  in  five-cent  slices ; 
How  much  of  cabbage,  to  a  leaf, 

Leaves  profit  at  these  prices  ; 


A    CURIOUS   WANT.  203 

How  pie-crust  gains  economy 

If  baked  when  dry  or  moister ; 
How  many  quarts  of  soup  can  be 

Produced  from  one  fair  oyster. 

And  he  must  be,  whate'er  betides, 
More  lamblike  than  his  mutton ; 

Appease  the  man  whose  fish-ball  hides 
A  too  obtrusive  button  ; 

Explain  to  those  of  doubting  minds 

About  the  butter's  color, 
And  reconcile  the  chap  who  finds 

A  hairpin  in  his  cruller. 

Pray,  what  to  him  are  life's  small  sums 
On  whom  the  truth  thus  flashes  — 

This  sage  who  sees  whence  sausage  comes, 
Who  really  knows  what  hash  is  ? 

In  short,  the  Herald's  curious  want 

A  mighty  truth  condenses  : 
To  run  a  five-cent  restaurant 

Takes  all  of  man's  five  senses  ! 


AZARIAH   E.   BRIERY  AND   HIS   DIARY. 

WITH  the  dawn  of  the  bright  New  Year, 
In  chirography  bold  and  clear, 
The  young  Azariah  E.  Briery 
Set  out  to  keep  a  diary. 

On  the  first  of  January 

He  wrote  as  follows  :  "  A  very 

Bleak  and  blustering  day. 

Made  calls  on  Alice  and  May, 

Miss  Lament,  Miss  Smith  and  Miss  Pratt. 

All  at  home.     Wore  new  cravat. 

Hope  May  did  not  fail  to  note 

The  sealskin-cuffs  on  my  coat. 

Invited  Miss  S.  to  attend 

The  theatre  next  week,  with  a  friend. 

'T  will  cost  five  dollars,  I  think. 

Drank  nothing  —  found  nothing  to  drink. 

Had  salad  and  strawberry-ice  — 

I  think  keeping  a  diary  's  nice." 

On  the  second,  the  entry  read  thus  : 
"  At  store  as  usual.     Had  fuss 


AZ 'ARIA H  E.  BRIERY  AND  HIS  DIARY.    2O$ 

With  landlady,  touching  her  bill. 
Must  pay  her  or  leave  —  which  I  will. 

Met  M on  Broadway  by  chance ; 

Usual  luck  —  had  on  my  old  pants  !  " 

On  the  third,  in  pencil,  it  read  : 
"  At  store.     Snowed  some,  went  to  bed. 
Am  sleepy  and  can't  find  the  ink  — 
A  diary  's  a  nuisance,  I  think  !  " 

On  the  fourth,  events  were  thus  told  :  f 
"  Got  up.     Went  to  bed.     Very  cold  !  " 

On  the  fifth,  things  were  made  briefer  yet, 
Being  simply  described,  "Warm  and  wet." 

On  the  sixth,  of  the  task  he  was  rid 

In  this  manner  —  "  Forgot  what  I  did." 

And  there  was  the  end  of  the  diary 
Of  young  Azariah  E.  Briery  ! 


HOW   THE   CATCHER   WAS   CAUGHT. 

FULL  tall  was  he,  with  sinewy  muscles, 
And  shoulders  broad  and  full  and  square, 
With  limbs  designed  for  terrible  tussles, 

And  the  regular  prize-ring  crop  of  hair ; 
And  he  played,  with  skill  exceedingly  fine, 
The  catcher's  place  in  a  Western  nine. 

He  was  rich  in  all  of  the  manly  graces  — 

A  very  Apollo  from  head  to  heel ; 
And,  though  he  was  good  at  the  stealing  of  bases, 

He  never  was  base  enough,  surely,  to  steal. 
A  foul,  indeed,  his  pulses  stirred, 
But  he  never  was  foul  in  deed  or  word. 

As  fair  was  she  as  the  sun  uprising, 
A  blooming  maiden,  with  luscious  lips, 

Whose  dainty  completeness  was  really  surprising, 
Down  to  her  rosy  finger-tips  ; 

And  she  often  sat  on  the  stand  in  the  shade, 

And  saw  the  games  which  that  catcher  played. 


HO W  THE  CATCHER  WAS  CAUGHT.      2O/ 

And  whenever  he  seized  on  a  hot  one  nicely, 

Or  caught  a  foul  with  agility, 
She  clapped  her  hands,  for  that  was  precisely 

The  sort  of  thing  she  wanted  to  see ; 
For  much  did  this  blooming  maiden  pine 
For  the  catcher  who  caught  in  that  Western  nine. 

Wherefore  it  was  meet,  when  the  games  were  over, 
The  catcher,  so  brave  and  manly  and  tall, 

Should  frequently  play  the  part  of  a  lover 
In  a  game  considerably  older  than  ball ; 

And  if  an  occasional  error  he  made, 

'T  was  simply  because  with  a  miss  he  played. 

For,  spite  of  her  love,  this  maid  was  addicted 
To  ways  most  coquettish  and  naughty  and  sly, 

And  the  man  of  the  diamond-field  was  restricted 
To  taking  love's  favors,  as  't  were,  on  the  sly ; 

And,  though  she  protested  at  kissing,  I  doubt 

If  the  maid  by  the  catcher  was  ever  put  out ! 

At  that  dangerous  hour,  while  yet  the  sun  lingers 
Above  the  horizon,  and  Nature  is  dumb, 

He  would  hold  her  small  hand  between  his  jammed 

fingers, 
And  stroke  her  soft  hair  with  his  stiff- jointed  thumb  ; 

And  often  their  walks  were  extended  so  late, 

T  was  eleven  o'clock  when  she  crossed  the  home-plate  ! 


208     HOW  THE  CATCHER  WAS  CAUGHT. 

At  last  he  mustered  up  courage  and  told  her 
How  fondly  he  longed  to  make  her  his  wife ; 

And  she  rested  her  head  on  his  manly  shoulder 

While  he  eagerly  asked  "  would  she  give  him  a  life?  " 

And  he  hinted  with  emphasis,  leaving  no  doubt 

That,  should  she  refuse  him,  he  'd  surely  strike  out ! 

'T  was  the  umpire  Love  that  gave  the  decision ; 

The  maiden  permitted  her  lips  to  be  kissed, 
And  then,  looking  up  with  a  slightly  blurred  vision, 

She    blushingly  murmured  :    "  Why,  yes  —  I  '11   as 
sist  ! " 

So  the  game  to  a  right  happy  ending  was  brought, 
And  thus  did  it  happen  the  catcher  was  caught. 


THE   FREE   TICKET. 

A  PIOUS  man  was  Jonathan  Snow, 
The  man  who  never  had  been  to  a  show ; 
A  Christian  man,  who  said  his  prayers, 
And  sowed  his  seed  where  sinful  tares 
Could  choke  it  not.     Sedate  and  calm, 
He  loved  good  cider,  a  sermon,  or  psalm, 
And  lived  a  life  that  was  free  from  blame, 
As  pure  and  spotless  as  his  name. 

Now,  of  all  the  things  that  Jonathan  did  — 

And  never  under  a  bushel  he  hid 

The  candle  of  virtue  that  burned  in  his  breast  — 

Of  all  good  things,  I  repeat,  the  best, 

According  to  Jonathan's  notion,  was, 

That  he  never  had  been  to  a  show,  "  Because," 

As  he  frequently  said,  "  a  show  is  a  place 

Where  the  Devil  himself  is  put  to  disgrace  !  " 

It  happened  that  once  a  circus  came 
To  the  village  where  Jonathan  dwelt,  and  the  same 
14 


210  THE  FREE   TICKET. 

Was  known  as  the  Mighty  Miraculous 
Egyptian  Menagerie  and  Circus  ; 
And  wonderful  were  the  things,  I  ween, 
Which  on  the  flaring  bills  were  seen ; 
Lions  and  tigers  and  monsters  immense  — 
And  the  price  of  admission  was  fifty  cents. 

On  the  very  day  that  the  show  arrived, 
And  the  boys  about  the  canvas  hived, 
Jonathan  Snow,  in  the  grocery  store, 
Discoursed  as  he  never  discoursed  before 
On  the  sinfulness  of  circus-es, 
Which  are  run  by  Satan,  he  said,  to  please 
The  wicked  of  earth,  and  lead  them  in 
To  the  ways  of  darkness,  death  and  sin. 

"  Fur  it  stands  to  reason,"  said  Jonathan  Snow, 
"  That  them  as  finds  delight  in  a  show 
Must  be  of  a  low  and  vulgar  kind, 
Without  any  piety  into  their  mind, 
But  full  of  the  sins  of  the  flesh ;  and,  for  me, 
I  would  sooner  jump  into  the  bottomless  sea 
Than  go  to  this  Mighty  Miraculous 
Egyptian  Menagerie  and  Circus  !  " 

While  Jonathan  thus  was  moved  to  deplore, 
It  chanced  that  a  stranger  came  into  the  store  — 
A  quiet,  respectable  chap,  and  he 
Belonged  to  the  M.  E.  M.  and  C. 


THE  FREE    TICKET.  2  II 

He  heard  what  Jonathan  had  to  say, 

Then  smiled  in  a  sort  of  peculiar  way, 

And,  drawing  nearer,  he  said  to  Snow  : 

"  My  friend,  here  's  a  ticket  to  go  to  the  show  !  " 

In  mute  amazement  Jonathan  scanned 

The  card  which  the  showman  had  put  in  his  hand ; 

Then  he  laid  it  away  in  his  pocket  with  care, 

And,  glancing  around  with  a  pious  air, 

He  remarked,  as  he  sauntered  out  of  the  store  : 

"  I  never  attended  a  cirkis  afore, 

But  I  reckon  now  that  I  '11  have  to  go, 

As  I  Ve  got  a  free  ticket,  to  this  here  show  !  " 


THE   CASE  OF   YOUNG   BROWN. 

NEAR  the  corner  of  Grand  Street  I  met  him 
I  think  it  was  Saturday  night ; 
He  asked  me  the  way  to  Avenue  A, 
And  I  sought  to  direct  him  aright. 

An  innocent-looking  young  fellow, 
With  manner  both  modest  and  mild, 

And  a  beardless  face  of  delicate  grace  — 
He  seemed  as  fresh  as  a  child. 

Cohoes  was  his  home,  he  informed  me, 
He  had  relatives  here  in  the  town ; 

They  used  to  reside  on  the  easterly  side  — 
Perhaps  I  had  met  Colonel  Brown  ? 

I  told  the  confiding  young  stranger 

That  I  knew  Colonel  Brown  —  Allston  T. ; 

But  he  shook  his  head,  and  pensively  said, 
His  relative's  name  was  C.  D. 


THE  CASE  OF   YOUNG  BROWN.        213 

"  And  therein/'  continued  the  stranger, 

"  My  relative  's  somewhat  like  me, 
For  »  —  heaving  a  sigh  —  "  I  cannot  deny 

That  I  am  likewise  see-dy  ! " 

Then,  seized  with  a  sudden  desire 

Of  befriending  the  friendless  young  Brown, 

I  told  him  of  snares  into  which,  unawares, 
People  fall  when  they  visit  this  town. 

I  warned  him  against  the  temptations 

That  lie  in  the  pathway  of  those 
Who  tread  in  the  maze  of  Gotham's  ways  — 

Which  are  different  somewhat  from  Cohoes. 

I  called  his  especial  attention 

To  the  sharpers  who  style  "themselves  "  Gents," 
Who  are  given  to  sin  and  to  taking  folks  in, 

And  whose  words  are  a  hollow  pretence. 

"  They  will  fleece  you,"  I  said,  "  if  you  trust  'em  ; 

They  will  hound  you  wherever  you  stir ; 
So,  if  you  are  wise,  do  what  I  advise, 

And  give  'em  the  shake,  as  it  were." 

I  mentioned  the  many  devices 

By  which  the  unwary  are  caught ; 
And  told  him  how  those  who  come  from  Cohoes 

By  the  sharks  are  eagerly  sought. 


214        THE  CASE  OF   YOUNG  BROWN. 

He  listened  with  strictest  attention 

To  all  that  I  chose  to  say ; 
And  grasped  my  hand  as  he  turned  down  Grand 

In  search  of  Avenue  A ; 

While  I,  in  a  mood  philanthropic 

At  having  assisted  young  Brown, 
And  given  advice,  both  weighty  and  nice, 

Continued  my  journey  uptown. 

And  then  I  discovered  —  Great  Csesar  ! 

My  watch  and  my  chain  —  could  it  be  ? 
I  uttered  some  oaths  at  the  wolf  in  sheep's  clothes 

Who  had  made  such  a  victim  of  me  ! 

That  innocent-looking  young  fellow 

Who  told  such  preposterous  lies  — 
Who  took  my  advice,  both  weighty  and  nice, 

Had  taken  my  watch  likewise  ! 

And  here,  by  way  of  conclusion, 
I  have  only  this  much  to  put  down : 

I  shall  always  suppose  that  youth  from  Cohoes 
Was  skilful  in  doing  folks  Brown. 


AT  THE   DAIRY   FAIR. 

"  T  TOW  pleasant  a  thing,"  said  she, 
il     "  A  dairy  maid  to  be  !  " 

"  Aw  —  yes  —  no  doubt,"  he  said, 
"  But  their  hands  are  awfully  red  !  " 

"  To  arise  when  the  birds  first  sing  — 
It's  too  lovely  for  anything  !  " 

«  AW  —  yes  —  although  I  am  told 
At  that  hour  it 's  dreadfully  cold  !  " 

"  And  then  in  the  morning  fine 
To  milk  the  lowing  kine  !  " 

«  AW  —  yes  —  but  it  is  apt  to  get  stale 
When  the  kine  kick  over  the  pail !  " 

"  And  then  in  the  sweet-smelling  vats 
To  work  the  butter  in  pats  !  " 


2l6  AT  THE  DAIRY  FAIR. 

«  Aw  —  yes  —  it 's  nice,  and  all  that, 
For  those  who  can  do  the  thing  pat !  " 

"  But  really,  now,  Charles,  behold 
That  dish  with  its  burden  of  gold  !  " 

"  Aw  —  yes  —  very  nice  — just  so  — 
But  then  it  ain't  gold,  you  know  !  " 

"  Oh  were  I  a  poet  to  utter 

The  praises  of  such  sweet  butter  !  " 

"  Aw  —  yes  —  but,  Maud,  if  you  please, 
That  is  n't  butter  —  it 's  cheese  !  " 


THE   CANNIBAL'S   LOVE. 

TO  the  faculty  of  stuffing 
Other  folk  no  claim  I.  lay  ; 
Hence,  in  telling  you  there  's  nothing 

Left  of  Hannibal  Tyndall  Gray, 
Except  a  head  and  body, 

'T  is  the  gospel  truth  I  say ; 
For  he  gave  in  the  cause  of  science 

The  rest  of  himself  away. 
And  the  secret  of  how  he  did  it 

Lies  hidden  in  this  here  lay. 

It  was  the  Beautiful  Cannibal, 

From  the  far-off  ocean  isles, 
Who  drew  the  innocent  Hannibal 

Into  her  dangerous  wiles. 
Much  had  she  travelled,  this  lady, 

In  sunshiny  weather  and  showery, 
Until  she  brought  up  for  a  season 

At  a  museum  in  the  Bowery. 


2i8  THE   CANNIBAL'S  LOVE. 

And  there,  at  the  door,  a  painting 

Of  this  marvellous  creature  hung, 
Wherein  she  was  shown  to  be  eating 

Two  infants,  tender  and  young. 
Thereby  attracted,  young  Hannibal 

Cheerfully  paid  the  price 
Of  admission  to  see  the  Cannibal, 

At  once  so  naughty  and  nice. 
What  cruel  fate  directed 

Young  Hannibal's  feet  that  day, 
And  why,  through  love  of  science, 

Should  he  give  himself  away? 

Unheeding  the  stuffed  anaconda, 

The  terrible  figures  in  wax, 
The  Patagonian  Wonder, 

The  blood-stained  battle-axe, 
The  Lightning-calculator, 

The  man  without  any  arms, 
The  Aged  Alligator, 

And  the  Brobdingnagian  charms 
Of  the  Fat  Woman,  guileless  Hannibal 

Through  the  museum  quickly  hies  him, 
Till  he  comes  to  the  Beautiful  Cannibal, 

Who  forthwith  hungrily  eyes  him. 
Oh,  you  'd  never  have  thought,  to  see  her, 

That  she  'd  exercised  her  jaw 
On  the  sirloin  of  both  her  parents, 

And  the  ribs  of  her  mother-in-law  ! 


THE   CANNIBALS  LOVE.  219 

Yet  such  was  her  record,  as  told  by 

The  solicitor  of  the  show. 
(Perhaps  you  don't  know  that  "  solicit " 

Is  professional  slang  for  "blow.") 
Before  this  lovable  creature 

Susceptible  Hannibal  stood ; 
He  noted  her  every  feature, 

As  a  student  of  science  should ; 
Her  liquid  eyes  of  azure, 

Her  gracefully  rounded  figure, 
Her  waist  of  dainty  measure  — 

The  fat  woman's  wrist  was  bigger  ! 
And  all  the  charms  of  her  person 

Were  fully  exposed  to  view, 
For  she  cut  her  dresses  scanty, 

As  cannibal  ladies  do. 
Too  much,  too  much  for  science 

Did  this  Cannibal  Hebe  prove  ; 
Too  much  likewise  for  my  hero, 

Who  was  "  mashed  "  before  he  could  move. 
Then  lost  in  unfeigned  admiration, 

He  sighed  and  murmured,  "  Ah,  well, 
Can  a  belle  of  her  seeming  station 

Be  indeed  a  Cannie  belle  ?  " 
(Which  the  same  was  a  kind  of  outrage 

Rarely  committed  by  Hannibal, 
And  shows  to  what  depths  he  had  fallen, 
Even  then,  on  account  of  the  Cannibal.) 


220  THE   CANNIBAL'S  LOVE. 

It  will  ever  remain  a  mystery 

To  Hannibal  Tyndall  Gray, 
The  full  and  authentic  history 

Of  that  most  momentous  day  ; 
But  at  four  o'clock,  he  remembers, 

He  found  himself  chatting  away 
In  the  very  friendliest  manner 

With  the  Cannibal  all  so  gay ; 
At  five,  some  things  he  had  told  her 

Which  are  dangerous  always  to  say ; 
At  six,  with  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 

They  watched  the  twilight  linger, 
And  't  was  then,  grown  suddenly  bolder, 

She  asked  him  first  for  a  finger  ! 
"  Just  one,"  she  softly  pleaded. 

Quoth  he,  "What  for,  my  sweet?  " 
At  the  which,  with  modest  demeanor, 

She  answered  shyly,  "  To  eat !  " 
Oh,  what  could  he  do,  soft-hearted, 

Love-blinded  Hannibal  Gray  ? 
Came  never  a  sigh  as  he  parted 

With  the  first  of  his  fingers  that  day, 
Yet  that  was  the  sad  beginning 

Of  his  giving  himself  away  ! 
He  watched  her  devour  the  member, 

Which  she  did  with  voracious  haste, 
And  it  kindled  the  smouldering  ember 

Of  her  cannibalistic  taste. 


THE   CANNIBAL'S  LOVE.  22I 

Thus  oft  has  a  glass  of  cider, 

Though  sweet  as  the  airs  in  "  Martha," 
Led  on  to  ten  nights  in  a  bar-room, 

According  to  T.  S.  Arthur. 


At  an  early  hour  next  morning 

To  the  museum  Hannibal  went  — 
On  his  hand  he  wore  a  bandage, 

On  his  face  a  look  of  content. 
What  cared  he  for  one  little  finger, 

If  it  satisfied  her  ?  not  a  cent ! 
But  there  was  the  rub  —  she  was  n't 

By  any  means  satisfied  ! 
That  left-hand  little  finger, 

Which  the  guileless  youth  had  supplied, 
Was  merely  an  appetizer ; 

And  when  she  pouted  and  cried, 
And  said  she  'd  had  nothing  substantial 

Since  her  Uncle  Yoko  died  — 
Why,  it  hardly  needs  to  be  stated 

That  her  lover  was  touched  to  the  core, 
And  he  up  and  amputated 

And  gave  her  two  fingers  more  ! 

Ah,  would  at  this  point  there  were  nothing 
To  add  to  the  tale  of  my  friend  ; 

But  I  Ve  said  I  'm  not  given  to  stuffing, 
So  here  goes  to  the  bitter  end. 


222  THE   CANNIBAL'S  LOVE. 

At  the  close  of  a  week  young  Hannibal 

Had  given,  in  varying  sums, 
To  that  soul-enslaving  Cannibal, 

Six  fingers  and  both  of  his  thumbs  ! 
He  had  also  declared  his  passion, 

Which  she  heard  with  a  sigh  and  a  tear, 
And  her  head  on  his  shoulder  reclining, 

The  while  she  chewed  off  his  right  ear. 
When  he  sued  for  her  hand  she  gave  it, 

With  only  these  stipulations  : 
That  he  'd  give  her  his  when  she  wanted 

The  same  for  her  daily  rations. 
So  his  hands  they  followed  his  fingers, 

And  his  arms  they  followed  his  hands, 
And  still  for  more  she  pleaded, 

That  creature  from  cannibal  lands. 
Then  half  of  a  leg  he  gave  her ; 

"  Oh,  Hannibal,  this  is  too  much  !  " 
She  cried,  —  but  she  liked  the  flavor, 

And  that  night  he  went  home  on  a  crutch. 
Thus,  little  by  little,  it  happened 

That  Hannibal  Tyndall  Gray, 
Through  love's  infatuation, 

Gave  most  of  himself  away. 
And  when  he  'd  no  more  to  give  her  — 

Nor  finger,  nor  hand,  nor  limb  — 
Behold,  that  Beautiful  Cannibal 

Of  a  sudden  soured  on  him  ! 


THE   CANNIBAL'S  LOVE.  223 

And  to  make  his  cup  more  bitter, 

On  the  day  when  to  wed  her  he  hoped,  - 

He  learned  that  with  the  solicitor 
His  Cannibal  had  eloped  ! 

She  left  a  brief  note,  saying 

She  hoped  he  'd  forget  and  forgive  'er  : 
That  indeed  she  'd  really  loved  him 

With  all  her  heart  and  liver, 
Yet  she  thought  it  her  duty  to  leave  him 

In  this  somewhat  Frenchy  fashion, 
Else  he  might  be  wholly  devoured 

By  her  too-devouring  passion  ! 
In  a  postscript  she  said  the  solicitor 

Had  solicited  long  to  defend  her  — 
That  she  'd  found  him  soft,  and  she  'd  miss  it  or 

Hereafter  she  'd  find  him  tender  ! 

To-day,  among  the  monstrosities, 

Where  of  yore  sat  the  Beautiful  Cannibal, 
The  greatest  of  curiosities 

Is  the  armless  and  legless  Hannibal ; 
And  forever  he  sets  at  defiance 

The  truth  in  a  shocking  way, 
Maintaining  he  gave  for  science 

The  most  of  himself  away. 


ODE   TO   AUTUMN. 

WITH    OYSTER    SAUCE. 

I  JOIN  not  with  the  bards  who  sing 
Of  gloomy  Autumn,  bleak  and  drear 
But  praise  the  noble  months  that  bring 

The  grand  fruition  of  the  year. 
The  tasselled  plumes  of  corn  wave  high, 

The  barns  are  full  of  yellow  grain ; 
A  mellow  light  is  in  the  sky, 

And  R  !  the  oyster  comes  again. 


The  buds  of  Spring,  the  early  flowers, 

The  Summer's  wealth  and  tropic  heat, 
Are  preludes  to  the  perfect  hours 

When  Autumn  makes  our  joys  complete. 
The  trees  a  rarer  foliage  boast, 

Nature  her  finest  tints  unlocks, 
And  lo  !  't  is  time  to  try  a  roast 

Of  Blue-Points  or  of  Saddle-Rocks. 


ODE    TO  AUTUMN. 

I  gaze  upon  the  distant  sea, 

Where  from  the  hills  the  far  shore  slopes ; 
I  think  my  ship  will  come  to  me  — 

The  ship  that  bears  my  happy  hopes  — 
On  some  such  bracing  day  as  this, 

A  perfect  day,  without  a  flaw ; 
But  if  it  should,  I  would  not  miss 

A  good  two  dozen  Norwalks,  raw  ! 

Hail,  noble  Autumn,  let  them  sing 

Of  melancholy  days  who  may  — 
The  tribute  of  a  verse  I  bring 

To  cheer  thee  on  thy  sturdy  way. 
Let  Summer  boast  her  roses  red, 

Let  Spring  to  violets  give  birth, 
To  me  the  Autumn's  oyster-bed 

Exceeds  them  all  in  solid  worth  ! 


225 


University  Press  :   John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
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3lMar'56PT 

IN  STACKS 

MAR  1 1 1958 
D  L.D 

, 

JUN9    1958 

lOct'58JT 


REC'D  LD 

JUN  4    1959 


13M5CHJ 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


